About Through Fear and Fire

The Special Operations Group are Australia’s most elite policing unit. They are who we turn to in times of crisis: shoot-outs, armed robberies, terrorism. And when the threat gets explosive, enter the Bomb Response Unit.

John ‘JT’ Taylor has seen it all, from backyard blow-ups to the largest bomb to ever go off in Australia. He became the force’s longest serving bomb disposal expert and one of its most distinguished members.

Between handling unpredictable homemade explosive devices, daring driving manoeuvres and swapping bullets with hostage-takers, JT has stared down death. He’s an adrenalin addict, having scaled some of the highest peaks in the world, including Mount Everest.

From armed robberies to counter-terrorism, bombs and booby-traps, this tell-all memoir reveals details of chilling true crime stories that have never been told before, and shows the grit and bravery of the world’s toughest police unit.

Gone but not forgotten:

Paul Carr (‘Possum’)

Brendon Warburton (‘KB’)

‘Blessed are the peacemakers, for they
shall be called the sons of God’

Matthew 5:9

FOREWORD
BY CRAIG BELLAMY

The Edge We Needed: How John Taylor helped transform Melbourne Storm

When I took on the role of Head Coach at Melbourne Storm in 2003, I understood the enormity of the challenge ahead. The National Rugby League is one of the toughest and most competitive sports leagues in the world, and success is often determined by the smallest of margins. I knew, from experience as a player and coach, that physical ability alone wasn’t going to be enough to achieve sustained success – I needed to build a squad that was mentally unbreakable, one that could thrive under the intense pressures of professional rugby league.

I did a lot of searching to find the right people who could help, and after speaking with many people I was introduced to John Taylor (JT) and Craig Walsh from the Victoria Police Special Operations Group (SOG). JT and Mr Walsh (this is what the players had to call Craig) weren’t your typical leaders, trainers or coaches. They were elite professionals whose daily jobs involved saving lives, confronting the most dangerous criminals in society and putting their own safety on the line to protect others. They weren’t playing a game; for them, the stakes were always life and death. This is what set them apart, and I knew immediately they could bring something special to Melbourne Storm.

JT and Mr Walsh ran leadership camps that were as intense as they were transformative. These camps were designed to push participants to their absolute limits – physically, mentally and emotionally. They weren’t just about fitness or endurance; they were about testing character, decision-making under pressure and the ability to work as part of a team in the most challenging circumstances. After our first conversation, I was convinced these camps could give us the edge we needed.

The first time we ran the camp, I took the entire squad, from senior players to rookies. Over three days, JT and Mr Walsh put the players through a series of gruelling tasks that forced them to confront their own limits. The focus wasn’t on breaking them physically – although that certainly happened on the odd occasion – it was more about breaking down mental barriers and teaching them how to stay focused and composed when everything around them seemed to be falling apart.

One of the key lessons the players learned was the importance of knowing and sticking to their roles. JT and Mr Walsh drilled into them the idea that no matter how tired, stressed or overwhelmed they felt, they had to stay committed to their tasks and responsibilities. As I often say, ‘When you’re under pressure, under fatigue, you’ve got to think, What is my role? and just keep doing it no matter what.’ That ability to focus and execute under pressure became a defining characteristic of our team over a long period.

The camps were incredibly demanding, but they were also incredibly rewarding. Players like Cameron Smith, Cooper Cronk and Billy Slater – some of the greatest to play the game – still speak about how much they got out of those experiences. They openly say the camps were some of the hardest things they’d ever done, but they credited them with sharpening their mental edge and preparing them for the high-pressure moments that define the NRL.

For rookies and new recruits, the camps became a rite of passage. Completing one wasn’t just about earning a spot on the team – it was about proving to themselves and their teammates that they could handle anything. Over time, these camps became a badge of honour within the club. If you got through one, you’d earned the respect and trust of everyone around you.

JT’s role in all of this was pivotal. He wasn’t just an instructor – he was a role model. His presence alone was enough to command respect. When someone like JT is standing in front of the group, you know you’re in the presence of someone extraordinary. This is a man who’s faced life-and-death situations, who’s been tested in ways most of us can’t even imagine. The players knew they weren’t just learning from anyone – they were learning from a professional whose daily job involved stakes far higher than any rugby league game.

What made JT so effective was his ability to lead by example. He never asked the players to do something he wasn’t willing to do himself. Whether it was leading a forced midnight march or participating in an intense team challenge, JT was always right there at the front of the pack, setting the standard. His incredible attention to detail and unwavering commitment to excellence were qualities that the players couldn’t help but admire.

But I feel JT’s real gift was his ability to read people. He had an uncanny knack for understanding character, for seeing through actions and identifying who someone truly was. I could spend an entire season trying to figure out a player’s strengths and weaknesses, but JT could pick it in three days. Within hours of meeting someone, he could spot who would crack under pressure, who would rise to the occasion and who had the potential to grow into a respected leader. That insight was invaluable, not just for me as a coach but for the team as a whole.

One of the things I admired most about JT and Mr Walsh was their ability to deliver clear, powerful messages to the players. They didn’t sugarcoat things or waste words. Their approach was straightforward: ‘You’ve got an opportunity. Do you want to take it, or do you want someone else to take it from you?’ That message resonated deeply, not just with the players but with me as well. Every year, I learned something new from these camps. JT and Mr Walsh have seen and done it all, and I’d have been foolish not to absorb as much as I could from their expertise.

For the players, the impact of these camps went far beyond the rugby field. They didn’t just become better athletes, they became better leaders, better teammates and better men. They learned to embrace adversity, to stay calm under pressure and to support the people around them no matter the circumstances. These were lessons they carried with them long after their playing careers ended.

The camps also created a culture of accountability and trust within the team. When players went through those experiences together, they developed a bond that couldn’t be replicated in any other setting. They knew they could rely on each other, not just in training or during a game, but in life. That sense of unity became a cornerstone of Melbourne Storm’s success.

Looking back, I can’t overstate how important JT and Mr Walsh were in shaping the identity of our club. They brought a level of professionalism, toughness and integrity that inspired everyone they worked with. Their influence helped us create a culture of resilience and excellence.

For me, those camps were about more than just building a successful team. They were about helping the players grow as individuals, about preparing them for the challenges they’d face both on and off the field. And for that, I’ll always be grateful to JT and Mr Walsh. Their contributions went far beyond what I could have imagined and their legacy will always be a part of what makes Melbourne Storm special.

PROLOGUE

It’s so bright I can hardly open my eyes. Everything is white; why does everything have to be so fucking white? White walls, white sheets, white pillowcases, white bed frame. The sun blazing in through the window lights everything up, making it even brighter. The effect is blinding. I shield my eyes and squint against the intense glare, trying to figure out if I am alone. I’m dazed and confused, but I slowly realise I’m in hospital, though for the life of me, I can’t recall why. I’ve just come to after a strong anaesthetic, which had me knocked out for three hours. As a regular on the operating table from all the knocks, bumps and injuries I’d sustained over the many decades in the police force, I had developed a good rapport with the surgeons I had visited – they’d come to know me very well. The last thing I remember was the anaesthetist asking me questions about my work, which I was always reluctant to divulge. I can distinctly recall fighting the power of the drug as it took full affect, acting as if I had been administered a truth serum by foreign spies. If any of my former superiors are reading this, I am confident that on this occasion I gave him nothing.

I’ve endured numerous arthroscopic procedures, a complete rupture of my right knee, a left knee replacement, a broken bone fragment in my ankle, severe frostbite to four fingers, a dislocated shoulder and many other injuries that aren’t significant enough to remember, let alone list. Yeah, I’m in familiar territory here. Deep down, I know I’m lucky to still be alive. It’s 2021 and I’ve now served 33 years under the Victoria Police Special Operations Group (SOG) banner as a general member, and am the longest serving Bomb Technician in Victoria (at the time of writing this book) with more than 31 years of experience as a specialist in that particular field, so it’s fair to say I’ve taken some heavy knocks. It’s not the safest job in the world; this isn’t my first hospital stay. Not by a long way.

After some time, it dawns on me: I’ve just had a right knee replacement, the result of wearing heavy ballistic equipment, chasing offenders and jumping over fences, wrestling crooks, kicking doors in, twisting and turning, jumping through ceilings on raids, landing heavily after fast roping from a helicopter and car crashes, just to name a few occupational hazards. I take a deep breath, knowing I’m going to have to convince my wife and family that this is just a minor setback and that I can keep ploughing through, even at the ripe old age of 62. No part of me wants to believe this is the injury that will force me into retirement, even though I know the road to recovery will be painstakingly long and the most testing of all. In order to be medically cleared to return to work, I know I need to again achieve the elite level of fitness that will enable me to wear my 40-kilogram bomb suit and carry other heavy equipment for hours on end. As a training sergeant, I have to lead by example. That means practising what I preach, and showing no weakness.

Rehabilitation is a road I know only too well. Back in 2018, my rehabilitation after my left knee replacement was completed in just three months (according to my specialist, for many this can take up to six months), and I was immediately placed ‘on call’. Upon returning to work, I had to complete all the duties required of a bomb technician – there were no shortcuts or special exemptions. Like a professional athlete returning from the sidelines, once you cross that white line you have to be ready to perform at the highest level – there are simply no excuses. But unlike a professional athlete, failure to perform to the best of my ability could result in people dying – including me.

Nausea takes over and I reach for the sick bag beside my bed. I’m extremely tired, and I need to take the next few days slowly – something I’m not particularly good at. This rehab will take a little longer to get through. I suffered an anterior cruciate injury to the same knee many years ago, which means as well as a full knee replacement, I had to have two screws removed which is usually a pre-planned procedure for anyone that’s had to have them put in – once you fully recover there’s no need to keep the screws in to continue to stabilise the joint.

For the first time, as hard as it is to admit, I begin to wonder if my time in the police force is coming to an end.

Throughout my career in the SOG, I have seen and experienced things that many people will never have the chance to, and that a lot of people wouldn’t want to. To be honest, which I am determined to be throughout this book, without fear of retribution or backlash, some of those things have been horrific, haunting and unbelievably challenging. Many have shocked me to the core. But there’s been a rewarding and enriching element to it all that has kept me coming back for more. Putting your life on the line to save others becomes very addictive; it’s something that’s very hard to let go of and separate yourself from. There’s an irreplaceable adrenaline rush that comes with kicking in a door, defusing a bomb or taking cover when someone is firing a high-powered weapon in your direction. I grew addicted to the thrill of the chase when I had an offender on the run, and the pure exhilaration when it was all over and I returned a child into the loving arms of their desperate family. The typical nine-to-five working rhythm was non-existent throughout my career, and regrettably, family sometimes took a back seat.

I joined the police force in 1987 and eighteen months later, I joined the SOG. I became a member of the Bomb Squad in 1991, which was reformed as the SOG Bomb Response Unit (BRU) in 2003, and retired in 2021 – only a few months after the knee replacement and after a career spanning 34 years. This book contains a range of anecdotes, many that took place during my work as a regular member of the SOG, and others arising from my specialty in bomb disposal.

I was fortunate to spend my working life with some extremely professional people, and I had every confidence in them no matter the situation. However dangerous a predicament I was in, I knew they’d have my back, and I will never forget their loyalty, camaraderie and willingness to take a bullet for me. It’s very hard to put into words exactly how it feels to know someone would willingly and without hesitation lay down their life to protect you.

Becoming a police officer takes courage, bravery, a passion for people and a desire to do what’s right. This applies whether you’re a uniformed officer on the beat or at a station – any role in policing comes with inherent dangers – but the chances of being put in a life-or-death situation are significantly increased when you’re a part of the SOG and BRU. In such specialist units, we are the last line of defence; the people who are called in when a situation is out of hand and requires more specialised expertise. We are the safety net, the backstop, the insurance policy, the last resort, and for criminals, we are the point of no return. Once we are called to a job, the situation will be resolved – make no mistake. We are feared, revered, relentless, well drilled, professional and not to be messed with.

During my rehabilitation from the right knee replacement, I found myself writing about some of the police operations and critical incidents I had been involved in throughout my career. Although I tried as best as I could to continue my career in the police force, my most recent surgery did take its toll. I lost all flexibility and kneeling became difficult making wearing a 35 kilogram bomb suit impossible. It was clear that my physical restrictions would prevent me from performing my job to the highest standard. My mind was as sharp as ever (in my humble opinion) but my body was beginning to let me down so I made the tough decision to put my papers in and retire.

With more time on my hands than I’d ever had, documenting my career was great therapy for me and the words kept spilling out onto the paper every day. But I soon realised that writing wasn’t my strong suit; my attempts to convert the memories of my experiences into words on paper were falling short. My writing sounded like a typical police report, with very rudimentary language use and no structure. I was in desperate need of help and direction. I knew I needed an expert. I met Heath O’Loughlin about 30 years ago when he would come to our office as a small boy. Heath was the son of a former Inspector, Douglas O’Loughlin, who was in charge of the SOG for eighteen years and had a 47-year career in the police force. Heath knew many of us in the SOG well from an early age, and even completed his Year 10 work experience with the group. He trained with us, shot weapons next to us, and saw first-hand how we operated. Upon leaving high school, Heath became a TV news journalist, working at Channel 7 and Channel 9, before switching to media and PR in the sports industry. He also become an accomplished author and helped write autobiographies for AFL players Brent Harvey and Majak Daw. Heath and I came into contact again in 2016, when he was working on another book called Sons of God, which incorporated the story of the O’Loughlin family, several of whom served within the Victoria Police Force, and included never before told stories of operations that had occurred within the SOG. The book was released a year later, in 2017, and Heath and I have stayed in contact ever since.

With a 400-plus-page memoir in my possession but at a complete loss as to what to do with it, I approached Heath and asked for his help. Heath had a deep knowledge of what it was to be an SOG member, thanks to his father’s decorated career, and was a professional writer who could help me reconstruct my work for potential publication. I discovered that talking was far easier than writing, and was relieved to turn my story over to someone who could help me tell my tale.

My hope is that this book will serve as a vehicle to explain to my family what I was doing all those times I had to up and leave them – sometimes for days or weeks on end. The truth is, I was never very forthcoming or chatty when it came to my work. My silence at home was mostly predicated on being told not to disclose any information to anyone, even family. I operated in a super-secretive environment, and the cone of silence loomed ever large over my head, but looking back, I wonder if it was drilled in too deep, if perhaps I took it too far and cut my family out as a result. I am still reminded I missed many important occasions, including significant birthdays for my children, but it’s always done in jest as they well and truly know about the importance of my work and how critical it was for me to attend jobs late at night or early in the morning, or be away from home for extended periods without notice. I’m eternally grateful that my family supported my career and understood the sacrifices that I had to make.

Due to the nature of my work and some of the highly sensitive operations I was involved in, many names in this book have been changed or omitted – for privacy, but not out of disrespect. Regardless, I truly hope you, the reader, will enjoy my journey as I show you what it took to be a member of one of the most highly trained, specialist units in any police force around the world.

To anyone reading this, I would like you to consider one thing about your life: how will you be remembered? My great mate and former colleague, Paul Carr, lived by the motto: ‘Deeds, not words’. These days, I find there are a growing number of people who will only do things that will benefit them, and not others. I have always tried to support those around me in their times of need and be someone they can always count on. Paul’s motto has always resonated strongly with me.

1

THE BEGINNING

I’m walking down the footpath less than a kilometre from my house, enjoying a leisurely stroll with my wife, Jann. I see a young guy up ahead on a bicycle and watch closely as he crosses to our side of the road, heading towards us. He’s wearing a backpack, and it looks like it’s jammed almost to bursting point. For whatever reason – perhaps it’s instinct, or maybe it’s experience after decades in the police force – I suspect he’s carrying a gun or a knife, or maybe even a bomb. Instinctively, I begin to formulate a plan to take him down and ensure Jann is safe.

Caucasian with short brown hair, a black jacket, grey pants and white sneakers, the teen is riding a white mountain bike with the word ‘GIANT’ in red lettering down the side. I take note of these details, knowing they could be helpful to the police – if I’m not able to deal with him first, of course.

I speed up and surge ahead of Jann, creating a buffer between us. The rider is within 100 metres when a white van turns the corner up ahead and slowly trails the man on the bike. Are they in on this together? I think to myself. How many people are in the van? Is this retribution for an arrest I made years ago, or payback for someone I shot? My mind is racing. I had made plenty of enemies over the years, and the people I dealt with were the type to hold a grudge.

The man on the mountain bike is racing towards me. I know I can’t let him get past me – Jann is close behind, and in immediate danger. The van continues crawling along and it occurs to me that the man on the bike is there as a distraction, and that the side doors of the van are about to spring open, releasing a group of masked men who will leap out, grab me and abduct me, ready to enact revenge for the things I’ve done in the past.

Suddenly, I’m brought back to reality by Jann, who is calling out. ‘John! John! What are you doing?’ I spin around and see her shaking her head at me with a knowing grin. She starts giggling. ‘You’re doing it again!’ she says, and I realise I was daydreaming. I’d walked off on Jann, not for the first time, and disappeared into my own little world, playing out a bizarre scene of cops and robbers. It happens almost every time we go for a walk. Jann says she always knows when it’s happening, because I pick up the pace and leave her behind.

This might make me sound strange, but when you’ve seen the things I’ve seen – the violence, the pain, the hideous things humans are capable of – it’s really no wonder I think the way I do. Those instincts, honed over years on the force in order to survive each day, can’t be switched off. When I go to a restaurant or cafe, I always make sure I’m facing the entrance so I can see who is coming in. I never sit with my back to any door, ever. Jann likes to troll me – sometimes she gets in first and takes the seat I’ve chosen. We fight over it until she’s had her fun and lets me sit where I want.

Jann believes I have some unresolved issues, some trauma from the things I experienced in the SOG and BRU, but I just think I’m wired a certain way, and see things differently. I was raised and worked in a time when showing emotion was considered a sign of weakness. While police psychologists were always made available to us, speaking to them was frowned upon. I can honestly say I have never had a day where I’ve felt flat or like I’m struggling for motivation. I put good health down to diet, exercise and the people you surround yourself with. While I acknowledge that my views are old-school, I don’t apply them to others. Everyone walks their own path, and I have plenty of close friends who have struggled with mental health. I am always among the first to reach out and offer them help and support, and to suggest they seek professional assistance if required.

‘Plan for the worst, hope for the best’ has always been my philosophy; it’s an approach that was ingrained in me from early on in my career. I was taught to be meticulously prepared for every job, task or adventure, no matter what. I am risk averse, always in control and fully aware of the potential consequences of my actions, and those of other people. So much so that I’m perhaps too cautious when it comes to caring for my grandchildren. If they’re in danger of falling or hurting themselves, I have to intervene – I can’t help myself. Instead of letting them figure things out for themselves and learn from their mistakes, I try to be one step ahead, always protecting them from harm. Jann thinks I am over-protective of my grandchildren because I wasn’t around much for my own kids, so now I’m making up for all that lost time and absent parenting. Whatever the reason behind my actions, this is who I am, and Jann knows I won’t change. My kids and grandkids call me ‘Grumpy’ because I’m always on edge, barking orders and demanding good behaviour and respect, which I have to acknowledge is ironic, given the way I behaved when I was young.

I was born in 1958 and grew up in Moorabbin, a suburb south-east of Melbourne, with my parents and three older siblings – all sisters. As the youngest child in the family, and the only boy, I was commonly referred to as ‘spoilt’ by my sisters, Moira, Margaret and Carmel. In fact, they affectionately called me ‘Golden Balls’. But the truth is, I was far from spoilt – in fact, I copped it pretty rough from Dad, who was quite hard on me. It didn’t help that I was named after him. He was John Stanley Taylor and I was John Thomas Taylor – though why you’d call your kid John Thomas is beyond me. For those unaware, John Thomas has long been a slang term for a penis.

Dad was a very hard man and didn’t suffer fools. He was an extremely hard worker, and worked three jobs, including the running of Taylors & Sons, the family-owned licensed grocery outlets in Prahran and South Melbourne. My dad never wanted to be a grocer, he wanted to leave the family business and be an entrepreneur and a builder, but his dad wouldn’t let him.

My dad’s brother-in-law was quite a successful businessman. He wanted Dad to join up with him establishing multi-storey car parks in the city and running caravan parks. But my grandfather said, ‘If you go off with your brother-in-law, I won’t talk to you ever again.’ So, Dad stuck with the groceries. At lunch, he would go down the wharves and pick up newly shipped Hondas on a tri-trailer and deliver them to car dealers for $5 per car. Then he’d hustle back to Taylors & Sons in time to close up in the afternoon. As if that wasn’t enough, he also started building houses in his spare time. He’s 96 years old now and still driving a Toyota Land Cruiser V8. Sadly my mum, Catherine, passed away in 2008, at the age of 80.

My weekends were spent helping Dad on building sites, filling in foundations, digging stump holes, cleaning brickwork or gardening. But that didn’t stop my sisters from teasing me. I still don’t know where they got the idea that I was spoilt, though. Dad didn’t treat us any differently in my opinion. I got whacked many times with a belt and a wooden spoon (which I probably deserved). Dad was short-tempered at times, probably because he was working three jobs and was under a lot of pressure to provide for us.

My mum was a beautiful lady. She was always dressed immaculately in Fletcher Jones pants, dresses and skirts. She carried her handbag delicately over her arm, and never swore. One day she was walking home when a guy on a bicycle snatched her handbag and pushed her over. She ran home and told Dad, who, at the ripe age of about 65 or 70, jumped in his car and tracked the kid down at a local park.

Like a scene out of Dirty Harry, Dad stormed into the men’s toilets and kicked in the door of every cubicle until he found a red-headed teen rifling through Mum’s handbag. That young bloke got jammed between the toilet bowl and the wall and had the shit kicked out of him. He’d thrown all the small coins into the toilet bowl, and Dad made him fish out every last one. Then he dragged the kid out by his legs, but struggled to pin him down and the thief got away. Dad gave chase until the kid jumped over a fence and landed roughly on the A-frame of a trailer. He ran down the driveway of a nearby house, straight out onto the road and got hit by a police car. Karma is a bitch.

The police threw him in the back of the van and drove him to our house so Mum could identify him and all she could say was, ‘You wretch!’ Even under those circumstances, she couldn’t bring herself to utter a curse word. That’s the type of woman she was – a real lady.

That story also says a lot about my dad, I suppose. Being able to chase after an eighteen-year-old at that age and kick the living shit out of him was pretty amazing. Dad always had a pretty short fuse – he would often go from zero to a hundred. My wife says I’m a lot like him.

I attended a Catholic primary school until Grade 2 before transferring to a Christian Brothers School, which I attended from Grade 3 to Grade 6. After graduating from primary school, I attended the Christian Brothers College in East St Kilda from Year 7 through to Year 11. I was far from a great student, and didn’t enjoy school at all. I’m embarrassed to admit I didn’t apply myself, and had to repeat Year 8 because I was skipping classes and spending most of my time in the city – something my parents were furious about when they found out.

In Grade 2, Sister Mary – a beautiful nun – noticed I was struggling to read and held me back after school to practise. She discovered I was dyslexic – a condition that made my early life hard. Frustrated at my lack of interest in school, Dad bought a desk and put it in my bedroom to force me to study more. My sister Margaret tried to teach me maths until she got so annoyed with me she shoved my head into the wall. She actually became a school teacher!

From Grade 3 onwards, I’d get home from school and have to go straight to my room and do homework and read. There was no TV or going out to play with friends. I used to slip a comic book inside a novel and pretend I was reading something substantial. I’m pretty sure Mum knew what I was doing, but Dad certainly didn’t. He would open the door to check on me and I’d hold the big book up in front of my face and pretend I was reading it. I loved comics, because the illustrations made it easier for me to understand what was happening.

The only things I was good at were arts and sport. Mum was more aware of my struggles at school than Dad. Dad didn’t see much of the day-to-day struggle; all he really saw was my school report each term, which was never good. In high school I spent an hour and a quarter on the train each way, travelling from Moorabbin to school in East St Kilda. On the train trip in, I was always terribly anxious and sick to my stomach. I was just so tired of it. This wasn’t helped by the fact that when I got to school, I’d have some milk followed by an orange or a mandarin, which would mix together in my guts and cause me to turn very pale. I’d tell the teachers I didn’t feel well, and they’d take one look at my pasty face and send me home. I must have skipped about 20 days each term, but because I’d turned up in the morning, the teachers checked me off on the roll and my parents never found out I’d missed the rest of the day.

I had lots of friends to hang around with and was never a loner, but I did get into a lot of fights. Looking back, I probably started most of them, to be honest. I suspect it had a lot to do with having ‘small man syndrome’. Being small, I was always pushed to the side, treated like I was insignificant, and underestimated. I despised the bullies. To prove my worth and make them take me seriously, I’d always take on the biggest kid in my year, or one year up, and I always stuck up for the little guys. If I saw someone being mistreated, picked on or bullied, I’d get right in the middle of it.

One day on the outdoor handball court a bigger kid skipped the queue, and it was on for young and old. I lost my temper and went straight for him. While I split the back of my head in the scuffle, I held my own and by the end of that fight, he clearly understood that cutting the line wasn’t on. For whatever reason, I could never turn a blind eye to an injustice, or someone being taken advantage of. Although I never knew how to fight properly – I was just a little scrapper – I never had any fear of confrontation, and ended up in close to 20 or 30 fights. I probably came out on top in about half of them. I wasn’t a great fighter, but I wouldn’t give up. I’d do anything to win, even if that meant fighting dirty. Thinking back, this altruistic streak in me was always there, and perhaps that was why I always felt like the police force was my calling in life. It would give me the chance to do the right thing and stick up for those who were less fortunate, or were being intimated or taken advantage of.

I had witnessed my Dad in a few fights, too. In Warneet, a small village near Western Port Bay, Dad built a few holiday houses and we had a rowboat on the beach. One day, Dad saw some people near the boat acting suspiciously, and told me to go down and check that our oars were still there. When I got there, I couldn’t find them – they’d been taken. In a rage, Dad jumped in the car with me and my sisters, plus my future brother-in-law in the back. The next thing we knew, we were speeding down a gravel road, fishtailing all over the place in pursuit. We got onto the South Gippsland Highway, which was a single-lane road in those days. When Dad found the culprits he roared up behind them, driving within centimetres of their bumper. Their car had an old tailgate that lifted up, and we could clearly see our two oars sticking out the back. Dad got ahead and cut them off, forcing them to skid to a stop. When he got out of the car to confront them, they tried to run him over and sped off.

Not willing to concede defeat, he jumped back in our car and continued to chase them on the wrong side of the road. He cut them off again, got out and threw a tyre lever at their side window as they again tried to run him over. He threw it with so much force, it smashed through one window, flew through the car and smashed out the window on the other side. Having taken out both back windows with one throw, Dad casually picked up the lever and examined it to make sure there were no scratches. Meanwhile, the driver leapt out of the car, lifted up his tailgate, threw the oars out and took off. To this day, Dad still travels with two tyre levers, one on each side of his car – just in case he gets a flat tyre, of course.

On another occasion, when I was around five years old, we were coming home from our holiday house in Warneet when a car ran into the back of us. They only took a little bit of chrome off the tow ball, but Dad wasn’t happy and got out to confront the driver. I looked out the back window and saw four guys get out of the car to meet him. An argument began, and it was clear they were giving Dad some lip. One of the guys was staring at me with his eyes wide open, looking shocked. As I watched, he slowly fell down and disappeared from my line of sight. Dad had given him a swift punch to the guts and put him down. No wonder he was staring at me in that wide-eyed way – he’d just had the stuffing knocked out of him. Four on one, and Dad still had a crack. As a five-year-old, how could you not be impressed by your old man?

My father would do anything for his family and took on three jobs at the one time in order to make sure we were adequately supported and secure. He was always busy and on the go and it rubbed off on me. I’m very task-oriented because of him – if there’s something to do, it has to be done right away. I can’t let a job sit there for ages incomplete. As a builder, Dad was extremely time conscious and everything had to be planned out meticulously and this was another trait I inherited. If we’re going somewhere, and I haven’t been there before, I have to make sure I know exactly where it is, how long it’s going to take to get there, and be fully prepared. Dad is stubborn and determined, and I am too. Once I saw him burn his back really badly on some hot welding on a building site. He didn’t utter a word as it blistered up, just kept on working. He spent the rest of the day finishing the job and then drove himself home. He was incredibly tough.

On completing Year 11 (which was certainly a surprise, to both me and the Christian Brothers, who by then were sick and tired of dealing with me), I attempted to join the police force, which was something I’d always wanted to do. Applicants had to report to a building in Spencer Street, Melbourne, where their heights were checked before a medical examination and theoretical test. Unfortunately for me, the height requirement back then was 5 foot, 8½ inches, and I fell short by a measly 10 millimetres. My application form was thus stamped ‘REJECTED’ and I was sent away with a heart full of broken dreams. I had left school a year early with no intention of returning, but now that I was unable to get into the police force, I had no idea what my future had in store.

With very few skills and no experience to speak of, I was at a loss for ideas and inspiration. While it wasn’t a passion, I’d done well in graphic arts and drawing at school, so when I saw an advertisement for an apprentice graphic artist and screen printer at a nearby factory, I applied immediately. My application was successful, and thus I commenced a life in the printing trade, working for a company called Luna Nameplates. What started out as just a job grew into a lifelong friendship with the owner, Geoff Penaluna (may he rest in peace), and his wonderful family, which continues to this day. During my ten years there I was awarded Screen Printing Apprentice of the Year for Victoria on four occasions, and in my final year, I won the Printing Apprentice of the Year for all facets of printing. Despite this success, I still harboured a desire to join the police force. In 1985 I found out that the height restriction had been relaxed, and I realised because of this my dream was closer to becoming a reality.

With Jann’s blessing, which was crucial considering we’d just welcomed the arrival of our second daughter, I prepared a fresh application and braced for a considerable drop in pay. With my height no longer an issue, I thought my dyslexia was the one other thing that might stand in my way.

I was now 26 and extremely fit, having completed numerous marathons and triathlons. After successfully completing all aspects of the entry requirements, I was ordered to pay one last visit to the police medical officer (PMO) for a final clearance, which sounded straightforward but was anything but. Years earlier I had torn a stomach muscle while training for a triathlon, and the injury was recorded on my medical record. Although I had fully recovered, the PMO noted I was still suffering a physical stress related issue resulting from the torn stomach muscle and he refused to approve my application.

Determined not to be defeated a second time, I sent a letter to the Chief Commissioner appealing the decision, only to receive a reply saying the PMO’s assessment would be upheld. Furious, I sent a letter to the Police Minister, which was met with the same refusal. Refusing to accept this, I sent a letter to the Ombudsman, who said he would look into my complaint and determine if the decision was fair. What followed was a series of intrusive medical examinations and procedures designed to determine if I’d be a liability or potential burden to other police. Thankfully, and as I had expected, they couldn’t find anything significant to prevent me from joining – much to the chagrin of the PMO, who’d told me I wouldn’t last a year in the job. At my final consultation I had just three words for him: ‘Sign my form!’

After my graduation I was sent to Frankston Police Station, which was close to home in Seaford. At that time, Frankston was an old and very busy station, and on Friday and Saturday nights the cells were usually full of local drunks and drug users who’d been causing trouble. I was stationed in Frankston for about nine months, although it was only supposed to be six. I had to stay there a bit longer because of a shortage of members and then headed to D24, which was the communications arm of the force, where all the radio calls were handled. My role focused on answering triple zero calls and delegating various tasks to the units on the road. D24 is the name given to the old unit; it was derived from the door number on the original office space at the old Russell Street Police Headquarters.

Once you got posted at D24, you were allowed to start applying for other positions. Those applications were prioritised based on seniority, not on who was the best person for the job, so it took forever to get transferred to your station of choice. As a junior member I was constantly being pushed to the side and overlooked. I’d put in a lot of applications for various stations – something like 54 over a six-month period. One night, when I was out at the police social club, some sergeants began stirring me up by suggesting I should try out for the Special Operations Group. They were taking the piss out of me because I’d been telling them how much I loved running and staying fit. Given that I was just 172 centimetres tall, they assumed I was full of it; they were judging me on my stature and had no idea what I was capable of. The sergeants were setting me up and bullshitting me for a laugh. They knew nothing about my tenacity, or my determination to prove people wrong.

2

THE CHIP ON MY SHOULDER

A few days after the night out at the social club, the tone of the sergeants who’d been belittling me continued to eat away. When I saw an SOG intake course advertised in the Victoria Police Gazette, I thought, I’ll prove those bastards wrong! The article described an intense selection course and said that they were looking for the ‘best of the best’. I knew nothing about the SOG, but those blokes had planted a seed inside me, and I think deep down I wanted to show them I was capable. I started making more enquiries about the SOG, and one of the sergeants told me that the members were massively into fitness and prided themselves on being in superior shape, both mentally and physically. I discovered that the SOG was like a SWAT team, performing tactical policing and specialising in weapons and advanced tactics. I figured I had nothing to lose by applying. After all, even if I didn’t succeed, I’d still have a job.

In the meantime, I was finally accepted to Springvale Police Station, although I only ended up being there for six weeks. I was really enjoying my time there, working the street and catching lots of crooks, but then the SOG selection started and that was it.

On my first day of the SOG intake course I was given a sheet of paper that explained the history of the group. It read: ‘Before the Special Operations Group (SOG) was established in Victoria, the only specialist team available to the Victoria Police to resolve siege-type situations was the Emergency Rifle Team (ERT). This team consisted of a part-time squad of members who had some ability with firearms.’

I discovered that members of the ERT wore blue overalls, like mechanics, and trained just once a month. They were operationally limited to siege-type situations, which were rare, and mainly the result of domestic incidents.

On 31 October 1977, the then Chief Commissioner of Victoria Police, Mr Sinclair Imrie ‘Mick’ Miller, was put on the spot by the Police Minister, Pat Dickie. Dickie, in the wake of a significant increase in terrorist attacks abroad, and what many believed to be the inevitable threat of similar events in Australia, asked if the police force was equipped to deal with such an attack. Thinking on his feet and not at all prepared for the question, Miller spoke fast and, seemingly out of thin air, identified the need for the government to immediately fund a new fifteen-man ‘Counter Terrorism Squad’. Miller successfully convinced the powers that be that the formation of the unit was critical for the safety of the public, and his request was approved.

Just a month later, with the funding secured, Miller appointed former British Marine Commando and then Chief Inspector Harry ‘Chippy’ Norton to lead the group, and thus, the Special Operations Group was born. The first intake was in December that same year, when about fifteen men were selected after registering their interest off the back of an advertisement in the Police Gazette. The applicants were selected on the belief that they had some sort of knowledge of weaponry, military tactics and terrorism or associated subjects.

Initially stationed on one of the floors at the old Russell Street Police Headquarters in the city, the SOG started out with nothing. They had to beg, borrow and steal from other police departments and units for everything they needed – even the basics, like furniture and simple office supplies had to be ‘commandeered’. There was no specific uniform, and eventually the members had to obtain overalls, which were dyed grey. But regardless of the obstacles and challenges encountered during its inception, the SOG eventually became Australia’s first full-time anti-terrorist police group.

The role of the SOG was:

To provide a trained response group to counter politically motivated terrorist activities.

To provide a trained response to combat ‘criminal’ terrorist activity such as armed offender barricaded persons/siege hostage situations.

As the SOG evolved and became more sophisticated, even down to the uniforms its members wore – progressing from those daggy grey overalls to a more menacing looking jet-black jumpsuit – interest in joining the unit skyrocketed. The number of applicants for each intake ballooned from a few dozen to upwards of 50, and even close to a hundred in some years.

The selection process also evolved, and with more and more officers and ex-army types trying to get in, the powers that be could afford to be pickier with who they let in. They began to separate the wheat from the chaff; now, they were looking for the ‘best of the best’. Medical screenings and physicals delved deeper than ever before, and during my intake I often heard the order ‘get rid of all the dead wood’.

I’ll never forget one physical test I experienced during my intake year, alongside about 50 other ‘willing’ applicants. It was held on one of the coldest winter days in June 1989 – the mercury wouldn’t have risen above 10° Celsius. It was bloody freezing. We were transported by bus to the banks of the Yarra River near Yarra Boulevard and were fitted out in full-length overalls and general purpose (GP) boots. Our first activity was a 3.2-kilometre run carrying an unloaded shotgun, while wearing a very heavy bulletproof vest and a climbing helmet. On completion of the run, we were ordered to hand in our shotguns and take off our vests. Next, we had to swim across the Yarra River, which was about 50 metres wide at that particular point. Once we completed the crossing and crawled onto the embankment, we had to use a rope to haul ourselves up a near-vertical, 80-metre cliff face. Upon reaching the top, we ran another kilometre circuit, returned to the rope, scaled back down the cliff, and then swam back across the Yarra River to where we’d started. But that wasn’t the end of it. When we reached the starting point, we had to perform a 100-metre ‘man carry’ with one of the serving SOG members. That meant lifting an instructor, who would have weighed between 80 and 90 kilos, and running with him draped over your shoulder. This whole circuit was repeated twice more without rest, and to make matters worse, they called it a ‘race’ – that’s right; we were competing against each other.

It’s safe to say there were many dropouts along the way. Some blokes quit after just one swim across the river, while others almost drowned, and a few looked like they were suffering from hypothermia. Some were taken to hospital in a serious condition as the battle of attrition reached its climax. Very quickly, the wheat was indeed separated from the chaff. The moment I took my first step into the water and my left boot disappeared under the surface, my entire body was overwhelmed with a feeling of deep regret, and my mental demons started chirping away, trying to convince me to quit. It took all my might and willpower to propel the rest of my body into the water and start swimming.

Each time we thought it was all over, an instructor would bark new orders and we’d be forced to start another series of gruelling exercises. When we were dripping wet and frozen to the core, they made us drop to the dirt and start doing push-ups. They never said how many we had to do – the test was as much mental as it was physical. Without an end in sight, you’re more inclined to throw in the towel. Conversely, when you have a specific goal to achieve, you can set your mind to focus on that number, knowing the pain will soon be over. But it’s very hard to keep pushing yourself when you don’t know how much further you have to go. After the push-ups, there were sit-ups – hundreds of them. Burpees, star jumps, you name it – anything they could dream up to eliminate more men from the course. The group was dwindling fast. With only about 30 applicants remaining, I was still standing.

Next, we had to go before a panel and prove we were the right fit for the group. We were quizzed and prodded by psychologists and instructors on our mental state, our ability to work as part of a team and under immense pressure, and our capacity to think quickly, problem-solve and take on any task – no matter how difficult or dangerous it may seem. The reward for getting past this grilling was entry into a twelve-week intake course which promised to take us to ‘hell and back’.

While the SOG had been up and running for more than a decade, little was known about the inner workings of the group, and any information about it was extremely hard to come by. Existing members were essentially sworn to secrecy – talking out of school was severely frowned upon, and could result in immediate dismissal. Finding out who was even in the group was near impossible. Everything the men did was shrouded in secrecy and their identities were fiercely protected. When the media covered any sieges or big jobs that the SOG attended, journalists were ordered not to show members’ faces in the newspapers or on the TV.

This secret squad had massive appeal to me, and the more I managed to find out about it, the more I wanted to be a part of it. Looking back, that lack of information was probably a blessing. Had I actually known what lay ahead for me on the twelve-week intake course, I might not have continued.

Having just completed a total of six weeks at my gazetted position at Springvale Police Station, I was hell-bent on becoming a ‘Soggie’. As it turned out, being relatively new to the police force worked in my favour. Applicants who had been in the job for a while often had reputations that preceded them – in other words, the SOG intake panel already had views about some officers’ suitability, even before the course had started.

On 18 September 1989, I paraded alongside 22 other hopefuls, all desperate to join the elite SOG and celebrate the fact that we’d outlasted and outperformed 50 other men who’d all started out on the journey back on the banks of the Yarra River. As the instructors inspected our parade presentation – from our haircuts all the way down to the application of our boot polish – my nerves began to kick in, and my mind started to wander as I thought about the next twelve weeks and what was in store for us. The single-day physical testing was enough to break most of the men, so how the fuck was I going to get through more than 80 days of what I could only assume would be torture?

Then, without warning, it began: ‘Push-up position! Some people think they’re special and don’t have to abide by the rules! Righto, here we go then: One, two, three …’ Within ten minutes, one of the applicants quit. The instructor saw a fracturing within the group, identified the weakness and homed in: ‘One down, who’s next? Come on! Any more of you pussies want to leave? Now is the time to quit and go back home to your mummies!’

First up was a punishing 30-minute exercise session that felt like it lasted an hour. Our once freshly ironed blue overalls were now dripping with sweat. We were then marched into a classroom so small we could barely fit into it. This was study session one of approximately six hundred we would have to endure.

Each day, we turned up with no idea of what was planned for us. We lived by a series of rules: ‘Expect the unexpected’, ‘Be ready to react’, ‘Be prepared to move when directed’ and finally, when summoned, ‘Never walk, always run!’ These rules held me in good stead. Whenever there was a clock in sight, I’d take a glance and count the minutes to four o’clock, which was when we were supposed to be allowed to go home. But on many occasions, if our performance was deemed subpar, four o’clock would come and go and we’d still be receiving instructions or completing a task.

When we were sent home, no matter how late in the evening it was, we were reminded to wash and iron our overalls, ready for the next day. But that wasn’t all – it never was. There would also be a 1000-word essay to complete, on a random topic like the history of the Irish Republican Army, Gandhi’s rise to power in India, or the reasons for the outbreak of the American Civil War. Keep in mind, there was no internet back in those days, and the local libraries were all closed by the time we left the compound, so we had to rely on friends and family to help wherever and however they could. I’d often call my wife from a public pay phone and blurt out something like, ‘Can you get to a library and grab whatever you can on the IRA?’ It was the ultimate mind-fuck; if the instructors couldn’t beat you down physically during the day, they’d pound away at you mentally, and attempt to get you so fatigued you’d just give in or fail to turn up the next day.

Making my situation even more complicated was the fact that Jann and I had just welcomed our third child, who was only a few months old. Looking back, it was a terrible time for me to be trying to get into the SOG, but I persisted, and we somehow managed. We were living down on the Mornington Peninsula and I was driving to and from the training compound in Westgarth each day, which was a round trip of almost 150 kilometres. To say the routine was exhausting would be a huge understatement, but Jann was an absolute ace up my sleeve. When I’d arrive home at night, she would have dinner ready for me, and would wash and iron my clothes for the next day. She was my saviour, and I honestly don’t know how the other applicants, who didn’t have anyone to go home to, got by. When I walked through the door, I could get to work on my research papers or start studying for upcoming exams, which covered topics such as tactics, self-defence, emergency action plans, deliberate action plans, weapons, systems, police procedures and operations, without having to do anything else.

While we filled our brains with information (both useful and useless) by night, by day we were taught weapons, tactics, self-defence, driving skills, airborne operations, climbing techniques, tactical rappelling, urban and rural tactics, forced entry and hand-to-hand combat. We also had to be qualified in shooting various weapons, which meant many hours spent at the shooting range. In between all of that, there were numerous physical training sessions that included boxing – which was really just an excuse for the more skilled instructors to punch the absolute shit out of us and see if we’d get back up.

On one particular day at the shooting range, students from the Detective Training School (DTS) attended for a familiarisation session on the various weapons used throughout the force. The DTS course also ran for twelve weeks, but was more of an intensive theoretical course. One of our instructors thought it would be a good idea to show how disciplined we were by making us lay on the ground, side-by-side, while the detectives walked over us. Some of these blokes were pretty big, and while luckily no ribs were broken, many of us were pretty bruised from the experience, and most of us thoroughly humiliated. The instructors would use any circumstance or situation to intimidate, dominate and belittle us in an effort to make us quit.

Each day the pressure mounted, and candidates’ minds and bodies gave in to the torment and trauma we were being subjected to. With every departure, the classroom became more comfortable, thanks to the extra room, but the physical torture became more brutal as there were fewer people for the instructors to focus on. Less men meant there was nowhere to hide, no chance to take a quick rest when a back was turned or an instructor was screaming at another applicant down the line. Our respective weaknesses were made even more evident – we were all exposed.

One day we were setting up to do some climbing and rappelling in the Grampians and one candidate confessed to having an extreme fear of heights. Instead of being granted any concessions or being offered support or grace, he was, quite literally, pushed to the edge. Before long, he was reduced to tears and trembling in place before being sent packing. In stark contrast, that week in the mountains was where I really excelled, fuelling my enduring love and hunger for climbing. I thoroughly enjoyed every moment of that particular experience, and there was no challenge too great for me. I wanted to climb, trapeze and rappel down every cliff face there.

But that expedition wasn’t all about climbing, unfortunately. One night we were startled by a noise outside our tent, and then woken by the instructors, who were ranting and raving. They ripped us out of our sleep sacks and thrust black hoods over our heads. We were then thrown in the back of a 4WD and taken for a long and bumpy ride. It was an uncomfortable and disconcerting trip – at times I felt like I was in a tumble dryer. When we eventually came to a stop, we were yanked forcibly from the vehicle, still unable to see, and marched to a mystery location. There, we had a heavy rope tied around our legs and were ordered to jump. Without hesitation, I jumped, only to be grabbed by one of the instructors, who called me an idiot. My hood was removed, and I saw I had been positioned on the edge of a cliff. I was told to put on a climbing harness, connect to a rope and rappel off the edge. This test was essentially our night rappel qualification. When I graduated from the course, I was given a dog collar and a lead to remind me of my blind obedience on the cliff edge. It was far from a humiliation though, as it was determined I was a team member who wouldn’t hesitate to act, and to ‘Go!’ when it was my turn. The instructors said that my willingness to participate and play my part was so strong, I might need to be put on a lead to ensure my safety. To me, this was a great honour.

The most gruelling week on the course was what’s notoriously known throughout the SOG as ‘Hell Week’. This is the most brutal section of the intake, and is purely designed to break those who are somehow still standing. We were taken to a location in the bush where the SOG had specifically conceived, designed and built an obstacle course that would make even the most experienced and hardened Ninja Warrior weep. I’ve seen countless elite AFL and NRL players attempt sections of the course (not the full ‘Hell Week’ experience) and fail miserably.

For a whole week, we were subjected to constant physical punishment and mental testing. We were made to complete the obstacle course incessantly, as well as doing other gruelling activities and tasks deep in the bush, and constantly peeling leeches from every nook and cranny of our bodies. We were given limited sleep – and on some nights no sleep whatsoever – and had to guard our campsite 24/7 to prevent any instructors from ‘attacking’ us. If we heard any noises or suspected an imminent attack, we’d have to yell, ‘Police! Don’t move!’ to alert the rest of the team, who had to heed the call and respond accordingly. On average, I’d say we would have been lucky to get an hour of sleep a night.

We endured push-ups, sit-ups, burpees, sleep deprivation, the obstacle course, hunger pains, dehydration, having to guard the campsite and trying not to doze off. We were constantly yelled at, always had to be on high alert and expect the unexpected. It was called ‘Hell Week’ for a reason, and no description of it could possibly do it justice.

So profound was the impact of that week, it took me a long time to readjust to normal life. I remember getting home from that week, desperately looking forward to a good night’s rest. I climbed into bed and was out like a light – depleted and fully exhausted. But in the early hours of the morning, Jann woke, hearing noises outside our bedroom window, and went to investigate. When she got back into bed, I grabbed her arm and yelled, ‘Police! Don’t move!’ I even raised my hand at her, my fingers pointed like a gun and my thumb cocked like a trigger. I remember thinking, My god. What have they done to me?

I don’t begrudge anyone for the way our course was conducted, because that’s the way it was back then. A lot of our instructors came from other institutions and organisations, such as the army and the SAS. There was limited or no science behind what we did, it was all based on others’ experiences and whatever was considered best practice at the time. I think the people who were most hard done by were those who had to pull out due to injury, which they suffered through no fault of their own. I came very close to being one of them.

The final week of the course involved a 20-kilometre run wearing the typical blue, full-length boiler suit, a gun belt with a .38 police-issue standard revolver, a water bottle and a pump action shotgun. Fortunately, we were allowed to complete the run in runners, where previous courses required GP boots. I’d been dreading this task, because the previous week I had twisted my ankle on a reconnaissance exercise at night. I had stepped into a pothole and twisted it badly. Having witnessed countless injured men being forcibly removed from the course by the medical teams, I chose to hide my injury and power through. I know now, thanks to X-rays done after the course, that it was a severe injury. A large bone fragment had broken off and was now floating around in my ankle.

The run began and I battled hard, early. My ankle was far from good, and the gap between me and the other runners began to open up significantly. When they started to disappear ahead of me, I panicked, realising there was no way I could continue to hide my injury from the instructors. I had come all this way and was about to stumble at the final hurdle, unless I could find a way to survive. ‘Failure is not an option.’ I kept repeating the phrase over and over in my head. It was one I had heard at least a thousand times over the duration of the course, a war cry that summed up the SOG’s purpose and underlined its role as a last resort for uniformed police, and the public.

The runners ahead of me started to disappear into the distance; I was fast losing pace, and beginning to stand out as a weak link. I would be in danger of being cut if I didn’t find a way to catch back up. I took a sip of water from my canteen as the sun’s rays pelted down on me, searing the back of my neck. The clasps on my belt swung from left to right across my body with every stride I took, rubbing away at the skin on my hips, back and stomach. I tried to think about anything but the current situation I was in. I tried to slip into a trance or meditation, but the pain was so intense it kept bringing me back to the present.

I thought about calling it quits and begging the instructors to let me go through, using my injury as a ‘free pass’ of sorts – but then I recalled, only a week earlier, an applicant had slipped on some gravel in a car park and cut his leg open on a vehicle’s numberplate. This was a standout guy who had everything it took to make it into the group, but regardless, he’d been let go. They’d shown him no sympathy.

Having run a few marathons before, I knew I was capable of putting myself through some immense pain and suffering, but this was on another level. This was a different pain. I kept telling myself, ‘The harder it gets, the harder you get.’ I thought about the doctor who tried to stop me from joining the force and how hard I’d worked to get here: all the late nights studying, the sacrifices Jann had made to help me, the time away from my young family and the mental and physical challenges I had endured. I’d be damned if I was going to let a little ankle injury bring it all undone.

These instructors had tried their hardest to force me out the entire time, and more than anything, I wanted to prove them wrong. They wanted me gone, I wanted to stay. It was a constant battle, but once I came to fully understand the game they were playing, and the fact that it was not at all personal, despite some of the heinous things they said, I began to enjoy the competition and the banter. It was actually very rare for an instructor to sack someone from the course – more often than not, the applicants quit.

The SOG intake course used to be as hard and as testing as that of the world-famous Australian Army’s Special Air Service (SAS) group, with elements taken from the French Legion. There’s not a hint of friendship between the applicants and the instructors – at all times, they want you to feel alone and vulnerable. They don’t even encourage, or tolerate, bonds formed between applicants. Of course, they like to see teamwork displayed during tests, scenario training and challenges, but they will step in to fracture a friendship if they see one forming, ensuring that no one gets too comfortable.

I had a squad mate on the course with me for a period of time, but he succumbed to the pressure and quit. Following his departure, the instructors saw that I was particularly vulnerable. Sensing blood in the water, one of the sergeants went after me. ‘Are you gonna quit and follow your boyfriend out the door?’ he screamed at me (homophobic slurs like that were regrettably all too common at the time). ‘You’re all alone now. This isn’t for you. You may as well give up now. We don’t want you anyway, you’re just wasting everyone’s time!’ I’ll admit, he almost made me crack – it was that punishing and unrelenting. ‘You’re not who we’re looking for! You won’t last a minute!’ You’re fighting to earn their respect the whole time, while they’re constantly telling you they have none for you. It’s brutal, and only the strong of mind can survive.

Physically, you can prepare a bit better, although nothing can really get you fully ready. You can do all the running, swimming, sprinting, hill-climbs, push-ups, sit-ups, burpees, lunges and squats that you want, but they’ll always find a way to add an element you’ve never considered. For example, swimming fully clothed with GP boots on, man carries over long distances, or running with guns and weighted vests. On top of that, add in a level of fatigue you can never manufacture at home (because you’ll inadvertently fall asleep), and it’s a challenge like no other.

The instructors loved to keep a running commentary on everything we did on the course, a nonstop appraisal of our efforts – but it was never positive or encouraging. It was always degrading, confidence-sapping and draining. Imagine doing something wonderful or completing a series of incredibly difficult tasks, one after the other, only to be told ‘You’re shit!’ or ‘That was pathetic – try harder next time!’

Whenever we felt like we were through the worst of it, they found a way to up the ante. Like the day I was first introduced to tear gas. The instructors loaded up a room with tear gas and sent us in, one by one, with a gas mask on – but it turned out that was only the beginning. Once they saw that we were comfortable in the room, surrounded by a thick cloud of gas, they ripped our masks off and left us to deal with the consequences. Some candidates refused to enter the room when they saw the others who’d gone in before them and the outcome of their experience. Those people were immediately culled from the course. Others, like me, did what we were told and braced for the worst. The idea was to experience the gas for the first time and learn to deal with the effects on your bodily functions, while also understanding what an offender would be going through when we used it on them. It was hard not to immediately turn and run for the nearest exit. And even if we tried that, the instructors prevented us from leaving for a decent period of time to ensure we all copped the full dose. I tried to hold my breath for as long as I could but, always one step ahead, the instructors saw what I was doing and started asking me questions, forcing me to breathe. ‘Tell me your name,’ one demanded of me. I refused to answer. ‘TELL ME YOUR NAME!’ he roared, furious at my non-compliance. ‘THAT’S AN ORDER!’ I answered his question. ‘WHAT IS YOUR DATE OF BIRTH AND AGE?’ he continued. I tried to blurt out an answer without inhaling, but failed and took in a lungful of the gas, which caused me to cough and splutter. Mucus, saliva and god knows what other bodily fluid felt like it shot out of every orifice on my face, and I battled to retain any composure. My eyes were stinging – actually, they were burning. My throat felt like it was closing in while my lungs were folding in on themselves and my chest was being crushed from the outside in.

Even camping was far from a straightforward exercise. ‘Pitch a tent,’ they told us – so we pitched our tents, only to be told to move them to another location. Of course, that location was not conducive to camping. It had been specifically chosen because it was on a steep slope. That made sleeping near impossible, because every time you’d lie down, you’d start to slide down the hill. The clever among us tethered themselves to a tree or rock and managed some shut eye, but even then it was short-lived. Not long after being sent to our tents for some rest, we were abruptly woken by the instructors, who raided our tents. This was another exercise in sleep deprivation, and it continued for hours. Just when you thought it was over, they’d come barging in again, making an incredible ruckus. They’d order us outside and demand we do push-ups, sit-ups and other exercises to snap us out of our weary state. They’d never tell us how many or how long, as that would give us something to work towards. It was always on their terms, and when they said so. There was an element of trepidation that hung over us, always, because we never knew what was coming – but that was all part of the plan, and the best way to prepare us for the SOG. After all, the group was predicated on the unknown and the unexpected.

Looking back, the course was pretty insane in the early years, and lacked any scientific backing or sophistication. As new members joined the squad, they’d bring with them some knowledge or experiences from other organisations or workplaces – even hobbies like jujitsu, karate, boxing or running, which eventually sharpened up the design of the intake. I mean, we had broken bones, ruptured discs, torn ligaments, heart issues and other complications – all because there was no thought given to rest and recovery. It was all about breaking people – literally. I don’t think it was intentional torture; it was more a lack of knowledge, science and resources. The instructors were making it up on the fly, with the primary aim of weeding out the weak and ensuring that those who graduated did so with a ‘never say die’ mentality cemented into their psyche.

About a kilometre from the end of the half-marathon, my ankle had completely blown up, and I had basically become numb to the pain. I knew that each time I pounded my foot into the dirt I was inflicting more damage, but I had committed to finishing the race. Somehow I had managed to close the gap between me and the other applicants, so the distance was more respectable.

When I crossed the line, I collapsed to the ground but was quick to regain my feet. I had to show the instructors that while I may have been temporarily beaten, I was far from defeated. While neither of them said anything to me, I knew they could tell I had battled through a pretty significant injury, and I felt I had somehow won some respect.

With that last feat of endurance and mental toughness, I was officially through the intake course and all but confirmed as a fully-fledged member of the Special Operations Group.

3

MAN DOWN, MAN DOWN!

I had only been in the SOG for a matter of weeks before I recognised that it was full of alpha males who loved nothing more than to flex their muscles and impose themselves in any way they could. That’s not to say they weren’t a bunch of great blokes – they were – but it was a testosterone-filled environment where weaknesses were frowned upon and taken advantage of. If you showed any sign of vulnerability, or made a mistake, it could take you months or even years to live it down – if ever. In many ways, this culture was necessary in such an elite unit, because everyone was always ‘on’, aware and up for a fight. Boisterous? Yes. Over the top? Sometimes. Inappropriate? Often. Many of the members thrived under this sort of pressure and scrutiny, but some didn’t – and those who couldn’t find a way to fit in never lasted long. You had to adapt, grow a thick skin, and prove your worth in order to be accepted and trusted by the more senior members. So much of what we did happened in each other’s personal space, and there was no way of working with someone you couldn’t fully put your trust in.

There was a constant air of competition in the group; if someone lifted big in the gym, it was only a matter of time before another guy strolled in and beat the mark. It brought out the best of us, and sometimes exposed the worst – especially if the competition and testosterone took over and tempers flared. Most of the time, if there was a fight or argument, the boys got over it quickly, and no grudges were held.

Being relatively small in stature, I had to work extra hard in order to prove myself as a valuable and long-serving member of the team. Making sure I stacked up became an obsession, and my already determined attitude when it came to physical training and exercise only intensified. I was always in the gym and never missed a training session. I knew I had to be the fittest, the strongest pound-for-pound and the most determined member of the group if I was going to succeed. If my shift started at 8 am, I would be there at six so I could go to the gym first and train. This obsession extended to skills and tactical training, too – I wanted to be a ‘go-to’ guy, someone who could be relied on and a known expert across a broad range of areas. I wanted to be one of the most accurate shooters, knowledgeable with weapons and a source of information when it came to tactical policing around the world.

But in my first few months in the SOG, I flew under the radar, and managed to avoid too much attention from the older guys. I think the jury was out on me; many were unsure how long I would last. A rumour began to circulate that I had come from the priesthood and was extremely religious. While this certainly caused amusement for those who had spread the story, many of the guys came to believe it, and treated me differently as a result. They tiptoed around me and acted very prim and proper, worried about how I might react to inappropriate behaviour and jokes. I suspect this also delayed me from being selected to join my first team and attend a critical operation, because there was trepidation about how I would handle things, being a ‘man of the cloth’. When I found out about the rumour I immediately knocked it on the head. Everyone had a great laugh about it – except me, because I realised how many operations I’d missed out on as a result.

One wet and miserable Sunday afternoon I was ordered to head to a siege in Deer Park, a suburb about 17 kilometres west of Melbourne’s CBD. This was going to be my first job with the SOG, and I could barely contain my excitement. A 66-year-old woman, Annie McGaw, had been shot in the stomach by a man who had broken into her home. The woman had been napping with her husband when they were woken by the sound of glass being broken. When the pair got up to investigate, they saw a man smashing his way through a front window in their lounge room with the end of a rifle. As they watched, he began to climb through it.

The couple retreated down the hallway in fear and locked themselves in a room while the intruder shouted at them to come out. When they refused, the man opened fire, punching a hole right through the door. The bullet exploded through the timber and Mrs McGaw took the brunt of the blast in her abdomen and fell to the ground. The intruder pulled what was left of the door off its hinges and in a fit of rage, screamed at the couple that he would bash their heads in with the butt of his gun. He started tearing the room apart, and fired several rounds through a window in the bathroom. Mr McGaw kept pleading for mercy and asked if he could carry his wounded wife to safety. The man eventually caved in and allowed him to, but fired more shots in their general direction as they stumbled down the driveway and over to a neighbour’s house, where they called an ambulance and the police.

We came to learn that the man at the centre of this chaos was Anthony John White, a former hairdresser and diagnosed schizophrenic. He’d driven to Deer Park all the way from South Australia in search of his girlfriend, who had moved back to Victoria to get away from him. Witnesses in the area saw him walking the streets with his gun, firing shots randomly into the air, at the ground and at moving objects. He had climbed onto parked cars and was trying to pick fights with passers-by.

When uniformed police arrived at the McGaws’ house, White was holed up inside. He fired at them as they walked up the driveway towards to the front door. They reported strange noises coming from inside, and the sounds of a woman’s voice yelling, ‘Kill me! Don’t leave me like this, kill me, please!’

While being treated at hospital, Mr and Mrs McGaw provided police with crucial information about White, including the weapon he was carrying, which was a .22 calibre rifle with a telescopic sight attached to the top. Locals were evacuated and cordons were put in place as we made our way to the scene, which had become uncontrollable for uniformed police.

It’s impossible to describe just how cold, wet and dreary this day was – I’ll never forget how miserable it felt. The chill factor was so high, I thought snow was about to start falling. Five of us were deployed to the rear of the premises, with other members covering the front and sides. Negotiators had been trying to make contact with White, but with no success. We started to wonder whether he was still inside or had somehow fled.

Like the first on the scene, we too started hearing strange noises from the house. At times it sounded like the voice of a child, and then I could swear it was that of a woman. There was moaning, and then what sounded like a cat meowing. I thought I heard someone crying for help; some of the others heard someone asking to be killed, put out of their misery. None of this made any sense – the McGaws had told us there was no one else inside – but we had to proceed with caution, in case White had taken a hostage.

Several hours passed, and negotiators still couldn’t get White to engage. By then, the weather had well and truly set in, and the temperature continued to plummet. With little cover available in the backyard, the five of us were completely drenched, and frozen to the core, but we remained ever ready to make a move.

Finally, the call came directing us to advance and make entry into the premises through the back door. We moved forward in single file, trudging through the sodden yard. The ground was saturated, and the soil had turned into a muddy clay. With each step we’d pick up thick clumps, wedged into the grooved soles of our heavy boots.

Our tactic was to make entry with stealth, as opposed to a shock and awe approach. The latter involves flash-bang grenades, lots of yelling and noise, with the aim of overwhelming the target’s senses and hampering their ability to fight back. We would take that approach when we knew the whereabouts of the target, and could isolate them in one particular area or room. On this occasion, however, because we had no idea where White was, or even if he was still inside, we needed to get ourselves into a position where we could lay eyes on him, and then map out our plan of attack.

We crept up to the rear door, which led into a laundry area. Directly to our left was another door leading into the kitchen. On the far side of the kitchen, another door led into the hallway. As the lead members entered the kitchen, all hell broke loose. White fired a shot, and two members in front of me immediately returned fire. I was last in the line, and unable to fire because the others were in front of me. As the men returned fire, two of them fell backwards awkwardly – they’ve been shot, I thought in horror. This was my first experience on the front line in the SOG, and it was quickly turning into a bloodbath.

The thought of two of my colleagues being gunned down like that, in cold blood, infuriated me, but I was still unable to fire because my line of sight was still obscured. In order to get a better angle on the gunman, I backed out the rear door and took up a position outside the kitchen window. I had a partial view of White inside with the rifle, but my line of sight was hindered by a large white fridge that was giving him cover. One of the other members had followed me out, while a third member remained in the house and was returning fire. With a clearer angle, I fired one round from my shotgun through the fridge, in White’s direction. The member beside me also fired two shots, which ricocheted off the fridge door.

Everything went quiet. Gunshot smoke lingered in the air, forming a thin haze. I re-entered the house through the rear door and made my way into the hallway with my firearm still raised and in position. The other two members moved forward and discovered White slumped on the floor with his rifle resting on his legs. I slung my shotgun over my shoulder and tried to place flexi-cuffs on him, but he put up one hell of a fight. When his energy finally subsided, I was able to secure his hands and noticed a river of blood pouring out from underneath him, all over the floor. We commenced first aid, and the paramedics attended within minutes, but White didn’t survive. We later discovered he’d been hit by a number of rounds.

In all the madness – which probably lasted 15 to 20 seconds – I’d forgotten about the two members who I thought had been shot on entry. After securing White and handing him over to the paramedics, I turned to attend to them, but was relieved to find them standing behind me, watching on. They didn’t appear wounded or in need of any medical attention. ‘Are you guys okay?’ I asked.

‘We’re fine,’ one answered sheepishly.

‘I thought you’d been shot?’

‘No, it was the mud.’

The mud? I thought to myself. Then it dawned on me as I looked down and noticed skid marks all over the floor. They hadn’t been shot, they’d slipped as they rushed in, and the added momentum from the recoil when they fired their weapons had caused them to fall backwards, making it look like they’d been gunned down. At the time, no one laughed – we were all just relieved they were unharmed, as we’d feared the worst.

Once things had settled down, we were all checked for possible gunshot wounds. It might sound odd, but with the adrenaline rush, it can sometimes be a while before you experience any pain from an injury or wound. Because White had been killed, the scene was handed over to the Homicide Squad. We were all unceremoniously separated, had our weapons removed, and were put in various police vehicles until detectives arrived to interview us. I felt like a criminal. It didn’t seem right, but it was all protocol to ensure that if the deceased’s family filed charges against us, it could be proven in a court of law that nothing untoward had taken place and that there’d been no collusion – so, in essence, it was for our own protection.

I sat in the back of the car like a naughty child for 90 minutes, only to be told that I would be interviewed the next day. The way we were treated and spoken to made it feel like we were being accused of doing the wrong thing, but I never doubted we were justified in returning fire. We’d all recognised the threat and reacted in the same way.

There was also a startling piece of evidence that we felt sure would silence any questions over our actions. When White’s gun was examined, the telescopic sight had a 9 millimetre round from one of our guns lodged in the scope, proving that the weapon had been pointed in our direction when we entered. That scope became a trophy of sorts, and was hung on the walls of our offices as an example of perfect aim under the most intense pressure. I believe it is still there, to this day. Whoever fired that shot was a living legend – we just didn’t know which one of us was responsible. The identity of the shooter was the cause of many arguments and much conjecture. Because more than one member used a 9 millimetre on that job, and so many shots were fired, there was no way of determining who could claim the glory.

While we’d hoped the scope would absolve us of any scrutiny, we were wrong. As the scene was pulled apart and examined, it was found we’d fired approximately 36 rounds at White, and he’d been hit by numerous pieces of shrapnel and bullets as a result. Some felt that we’d used too much force. I understand that when you hear those numbers, it sounds like a lot, but this assessment showed a complete lack of understanding. Unless you’ve been in a situation where your life is under threat, you cannot judge the actions of others under that kind of duress. It all happens so fast, and there’s no time to think – everything is instinctive, and you revert to the way you’ve been trained.

In our line of work, you take steps to neutralise the threat before you, and you take no risks. In this case, White fired at us with the intention to kill, and we retaliated. There was no opportunity to hit pause and say, ‘Okay guys, who wants to shoot back at him?’ We all fired back, and we kept firing until the threat was removed. Unfortunately for White, that meant the end of him, but he made the choice to engage, not us.

The next day we were forced to provide individual video re-enactments for the Homicide Squad and all the while I was prevented from contacting the other members to avoid any perceived collusion. At this point I felt like we were on trial. These so-called experts had never been in a situation like the one we were in the previous day, and yet, they were questioning why we’d fired so often. These are the situations where you discover who your real supporters are, within your own unit and the wider police force. In our office, rumours had started to spread, with people saying they’d heard we fired shots through a frosted window. If that was the case, we’d have been firing blindly! It is sad and unfortunate that you sometimes have to justify your actions to people who should know better; people who should be on your side. Deep down, I felt that the doubts from one particular member were aimed in my direction because it was my first job. Maybe he felt I wasn’t ready, that I shouldn’t have taken someone else’s spot. Maybe he was jealous that he hadn’t been involved in the job.

To me, it was a lesson well learnt. At that moment, I made a vow that whenever a member was involved in a shooting, I would support their actions without question. For the five of us who went through that back door and came under fire, it became a moment we experienced and shared together. We all knew the truth of what had happened, and that we acted professionally and swiftly to protect each other from an otherwise certain death. Our actions were justified.

I had witnessed the level of professionalism shown by all the members on the team; no one hesitated, and each man moved into that house while under fire, and then took action believing two of their colleagues may have been shot and needed saving. Questions from within the group only came from a few non-team players – individuals who never really fitted the SOG’s ethos and who were eventually weeded out of the group. They were the members who undermined, sowed seeds of doubt, complained and were essentially only in it for themselves. As the group evolved and we became more sophisticated and aligned, these types of individuals were squeezed out and left behind.

What remained constant in the SOG, however, was the banter, pranks and humour, which kept everyone in check and ensured no one ever got too far ahead of themselves. In the very early days, and I acknowledge none of these antics would be acceptable today, there was one member injured in a car crash and hospitalised, and we took some random clothes in for him to get changed into when he was discharged – but we made sure none of the clothes matched. We handed him bright red pants, an odd pair of thongs, and a disgusting green jacket. When he left the hospital and headed to the awaiting police car he looked dishevelled and was red-faced. Another time a long-serving member of the dog surveillance unit was due to retire, so we kidnapped him and took him to various locations throughout the CBD and finally dumped him at his official retirement function in Albert Park dressed in embarrassing clothing – it was all in good fun. It wasn’t unusual to get gassed on your birthday or strapped to a chair and put in the lift, left to ride the elevator for a period of time. No one was immune to being the butt of a joke – especially not me. After being secretly labelled a priest and having the men tiptoe around me when I first joined the SOG, I was now to be adorned with a new identity, as a result of the shot I fired through the McGaws’ kitchen and into their Kelvinator fridge. For the next six months my nickname was ‘Kelvin’ – thankfully, it didn’t stick.

After eventually shaking the nickname ‘Kelvin’ and managing to convince my colleagues that I was not a priest or religious fanatic, I was finally winning the confidence and trust of the more senior members of the SOG. At seven months in, I was still considered a rookie, still learning the ropes while the seasoned veterans handled the higher-risk tasks, but I was getting closer to the action than ever before.

On one of the coldest nights I’d ever experienced, we were briefed on a dangerous undercover operation that involved the purchase of eight stolen vehicles and a car carrier. The deal was set at $130,000, with one of our own SOG members acting as the undercover operative, tasked with delivering the cash. The rest of us were assigned to provide cover and protection – ready to move in at a moment’s notice.

We arrived at the rendezvous point in Maidstone, an inner-city suburb in Melbourne, where the transaction was to take place. A sniper and I were assigned to the roof of the car yard and told to observe and provide cover for the undercover agent. The bitterly cold wind sliced through our Gore-Tex raincoats as we climbed onto the flat, tin roof, lay on our stomachs and settled in for what we knew would be a long night.

As midnight approached, the rain began to fall in sheets. While the conditions were horrendous, we had to remain still, be silent and blend into the shadows – the life of our teammate depended on it. This was no easy feat, however. The chill factor was off the charts. The rain seeped through my tactical vest, then my ballistic vest and finally through all my clothes, making me shiver uncontrollably. However, I tried to remain focused. In the SOG, we were trained not to show any weakness – and as a rookie, I couldn’t afford to give the impression I was struggling or vulnerable in any way. I bit back the temptation to complain and curse, and just tried to keep as still as possible as the icy rain flooded the roof, soaking us both to the bone.

Each time a set of headlights appeared down the road, I prayed that it would be the car carrier arriving with the stolen vehicles, but hundreds of cars and trucks passed, and they all failed to turn in to the car yard. Three hours had passed, and I was numb from the cold, my body barely responsive. It felt like hypothermia was eating away at all my edges, trying to find a way in.

Just before 3 am the car carrier finally arrived, and parked right in front of us. We were so close to the top row of vehicles we could almost reach out and touch them. Through our earpieces, we heard negotiations commence between the four offenders and the undercover SOG bagman below us. While we were secreted on the rooftop, other SOG members were scattered all around the car yard, waiting for the deal to take place so arrests could be made.

Just as the SOG bagman produced the money, one of the offenders pulled out a .44 black powder pistol and aimed it at his chest. He pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. It was a misfire. As that was happening, the signal went out to make the arrests. Chaos erupted and offenders scattered in every direction. In the confusion, the gunman threw the pistol away and attempted to run, only to be surrounded by a team of SOG officers with semi-automatic machine guns raised. Within 30 seconds, our team had the rest of the offenders in custody without a single shot being fired. The SOG bagman was shaken but unharmed, and would live to tell an incredible story of how he escaped certain death. When the sun started to come up, we found the discarded pistol in the long grass next to the car yard.

With the scene secured and settled, we also searched the truck and stolen vehicles. In the boot of one car, we found the car carrier’s original driver, who had been bound and gagged and was lying beside a shovel. The fear in that man’s eyes will stay with me forever. He had been kidnapped, shoved into the boot, and left to contemplate his destiny. Would he be forced to dig his own grave with that shovel, or would they dig it for him? The terror he must have felt was unimaginable, and the inability to do anything to change his own fate deeply traumatising.

While in the end the mission was a success, the memory of that night – the cold, the rain, the misfire and near-death experience for one of our men, and the fear in the truck driver’s eyes – have all stayed with me till this day. It was yet another harsh reminder of the reality and seriousness of our work, the thin line between life and death, and the lengths some people will go to in order to make money.

4

LOVES OF MY LIFE

Jann Baker was my cousin’s best friend, so I’d known her for a very long time. We first met on a holiday in Warneet, a coastal town 68 kilometres south-east of Melbourne’s CBD. My cousin, Christine, had brought Jann to the holiday house we had, and while I spent some time with her, we were too young for any sparks to fly as I was sixteen years old and Jann just fifteen. I continued to see Jann over the years when she spent time with my cousin, but when we were both in Year 11, my school, the Christian Brothers College in St Kilda, conducted ballroom dancing classes and invitations were sent to various girls’ schools including Jann’s. Jann was at the Presentation Convent, Windsor – a school that had a high brick fence with shards of broken glass embedded on the top. To this day I’m still not sure if the security measure was to keep boys out or keep the girls in.

Dancing classes were held every Thursday after school in the hall. It was like a coming of age film, all the boys stood to one side and the girls on the other. We would all awkwardly look each other up and down. Only on the teacher’s command would we come together and find our dance partner. Looking back now, it was quite funny as the hesitant boys would advance to their prospective partners and take their hand. It must have been terrifying for the girls who would have just been hoping to be picked and not left standing alone. As for me, I knew exactly who I wanted to partner with, so I walked across the great divide with confidence and took Jann’s hand. But it wasn’t all smooth sailing. At some stage, I strayed and started seeing a girl from another school – but it was short lived and I realised she wasn’t for me.

Towards the end of that year, Jann and I became regular dance partners and our relationship starting to blossom. It was perhaps set in stone when we attended the formal ball together. Then at the end of the year the school held another modern dance event with a live band. All the dances were heavily monitored by the Christian Brothers, who would stand on strategically positioned chairs around the dance floor, watching to ensure nothing untoward was occurring between the couples. While I’ve confessed to being somewhat of a trouble-maker during my school years, during the dances I was always on my best behaviour, but on one occasion the Christian Brothers disagreed. I was tapped on the shoulder one night and told to leave the hall, cited for dancing too close to Jann. I was told my dancing style wasn’t appropriate. While I didn’t argue, as there was no point, I can now come clean and admit it was all Jann’s fault and I was the innocent party.

Jann and I started seeing each other outside of dancing and things got more serious when she asked me to the movies. I was hoping for an intimate affair, only to discover my cousin, Christine, had also been invited. Regardless, it was definitely true love – after all who else would sit in the front row watching Gone with the Wind for three hours? I only went to movies that starred Clint Eastwood!

Jann continued to Year 12 when I began my screen printing apprenticeship. Every Friday night I would catch a train to Caulfield Station and walk to her house in the hope she would be free. Sometimes she would be finishing her homework while I was watching TV with her parents in the lounge room. Jann and I spent Saturday afternoons and evenings together, and on Sundays I had lunch with Jann’s entire family.

The decision for us to tie the knot was far from conventional. It came about during a conversation one day when Jann just suddenly suggested, ‘We should get married.’ In shock but also super keen, I agreed. It was almost a forgone conclusion as I had been calling Jann’s parents ‘Mum’ and ‘Dad’ for some time. Prior to my 21st birthday I asked for Jann’s father’s permission to marry her only to be met with, ‘It’s about bloody time!’ At my 21st we announced our engagement and got married the following year.

After we got married and I joined the police force, I had nothing but Jann’s full support. We’d just had Belinda, our second child, and I was off to the Academy for sixteen weeks. Jann was left at home looking after two kids, but she never once complained about it. I was only home on Wednesday nights and weekends, and to complicate things further, we were also doing an extension on the house. Jann says I had a bit of trouble bonding with Belinda because I wasn’t around much, so she didn’t really know who I was!

When I decided to join the SOG, my timing wasn’t any better. Damian, our third child, was only five weeks old. I don’t recall getting Jann’s approval this time – I basically told her I’d applied to join a new unit. I told her it was another challenge and another chance to fly the flag for the ‘little guys’. This was no doubt an incredibly tough period for Jann, who spent every day home alone with three kids and then had to look after me when I came home at night, physically and mentally drained.

One night when I came home I still had green and black camouflage make-up all over my face – I looked a real mess. The instructors had kept me awake for hours on end, and then when I got home, there was no peace and quiet with a five-week-old baby. We also lived on a pretty busy road, so when I finally made it to bed, I’d lie there listening to cars driving past all night long. It was a bit of a thoroughfare, and there were often teenagers walking up and down the street, too. Despite how utterly exhausted I was, Jann knew there was no way I’d ever throw in the towel, because I was too stubborn, task orientated and determined.

The support I received from Jann was pretty amazing. While I was grateful for it at the time, I don’t think I fully appreciated it.

She always tells me it was her job to support me and raise our children, but in hindsight she dealt with so much, and not many people would have been able to cope. Some nights I’d get home and give her my filthy blue overalls to wash, and have to tell her to be careful because they had tear gas residue all over them.

Life didn’t get much easier for Jann when I was in the SOG. Back then there were no mobile phones, but we had an old answering machine, so she’d often come home to a message saying I might be away for a few days. We didn’t get any warning before an operation because the SOG was always a ‘last resort’ measure. We weren’t allowed to share any information with our loved ones about any of the jobs we were sent on until well after they were completed and any ensuing investigation closed. We never had an option to go or stay, we just followed orders and did what needed to be done. Whenever Jann saw or heard something on the radio or TV about a shooting or incident, she’d receive a call from my superiors telling her I was fine, but they wouldn’t give her any other details.

After one shooting, I was taken to Frankston Police Station to be interviewed by Homicide Squad detectives, and arrived home just as Jann was heading off to work, so instead of sitting inside alone and potentially bored with nothing to do, I went for a long run. While Jann took everything in her stride, I’ve since learned that our oldest daughter, Caroline, saw it all very differently. She says she used to lie in bed wondering where I’d gone and fearing for my safety. She spent countless nights lying awake, worried I wasn’t going to come home. Our younger children, Belinda and Damian, knew nothing else and were born into a life where their dad was always away. I never felt a need to explain to them what I did, as they wouldn’t have understood – to them I was one of the ‘goodies’ fighting crime against the ‘baddies’. Jann and I always tried to shield the kids from the realities of what I did – less was always best in our mind, but there was one time where worlds collided. I attended a school and was approached by a police officer I was friends with who told me one of Belinda’s good friends was closely connected to an infamous crime family. I immediately got more information, deeply concerned for my daughter’s safety and the safety of my family and moved to intervene. I was able to find out that the mother of the child was an innocent party, but was associated with people I had arrested. I contacted the mother, and we discussed our predicament, which she fully appreciated and understood. We agreed that Belinda had to stop staying over at their house and would not be allowed to visit if any questionable characters were there. We couldn’t give Belinda a suitable explanation as to why things had suddenly changed, we just had to lay down a new law while being careful not to ruin her friendship.

No matter what I wanted to do, whether it be work related or climbing, Jann never complained or stood in the way. Jann’s philosophy is that being married to somebody doesn’t give you the right to tell them how to live. If there was something I really wanted to do, she was always happy to support me. Jann is the most resilient woman I’ve ever met. She’s unfazed by change and always takes things in her stride. During my entire career, she managed to keep our family home safe, welcoming and functional while working as a podiatrist and pursuing various hobbies like art, dress making, painting, pottery, climbing and travelling among many other things. Jann sacrificed a tremendous amount when I was in the force, and had to attend so many functions, events, school appointments, kids’ sports games and family gatherings essentially as a single parent. It got to a stage that if I was able to attend something with her and the kids, it would be considered a bonus rather than a normality.

5

BUCKLE UP!

Although working in the SOG involved some pretty hair-raising moments the truth was, there was also a lot of waiting around. I was anticipating another boring day in an unmarked police car waiting for a bunch of clowns to commit an armed robbery. Six hours sitting in a stuffy vehicle, wearing ballistic protection and a tactical vest, listening to the police radio. How long before the cramps and muscle aches start setting in this time? I wondered. I was stuck in that car with three other officers, all of us constantly trying to move around to keep our blood circulating so we could react with speed in the event of an emergency. It was painful, and uncomfortable. After a period of time, what were minor discomforts become major irritations; my helmet chin strap feels too tight, the communications earpiece with the masking tape holding it in place starts to get super uncomfortable, my gun belt starts to compress my kidneys; and the gun holster, strapped to my right leg, and gas mask, strapped to my left leg, starts to feel like they’re cutting off my circulation. I start getting pins and needles in my feet. And the other downside of being stuck in a car full of blokes? Flatulence. I’m not exactly proud to admit that I find farts funny in most situations, but they’re a lot less funny when trapped in a vehicle on a long stake-out. That’s when my sense of humour starts to wane.

This particular operation, Operation Thorn, was in its second month, led by the Armed Robbery Squad (ARS). Every Tuesday we had been routinely hiding close to a bakery in Brunswick, and we spent Thursdays at a Melbourne Airport freight terminal. We were expecting an armed robbery to be conducted on one or both premises by a notorious criminal trio. However, up until this point, nothing had happened, and we were all starting to wonder if anything ever would.

Only a week prior, we’d been in a similar position, all set and ready to go. The offenders had parked a stolen panel van in the designated location and raised the bonnet to make it look like they had broken down, but then a good Samaritan came along to offer them help, which spooked them. The driver of the getaway van got nervous and pulled the pin prior to the arrival of an Armaguard truck laden with cash. Later that night, they torched the panel van and went back to square one.

Operation Thorn had been established after the ARS received some information about an armed robbery on a Brambles armoured vehicle in Port Melbourne. Two career criminals had been fingered for that crime by an informant: Stephen Asling and Stephen Barci.

Now that detectives had names to go on, the hard work commenced, and it wasn’t long before they discovered the pair were planning another dangerous robbery on another armoured truck. In the Brambles truck robbery two years prior, they ambushed two security guards who were at breakfast, forcing them at gunpoint into the rear of the truck before stealing their revolvers. The guards were then driven to another location, where they were relieved of a $426,000 payload.

As I sat in the driver’s seat of the unmarked car battling the stench coming from my colleagues, I attempted to stretch my back and get some relief from the monotony. A month before this operation commenced, I conducted a number of reconnaissance missions on Asling and Barci with another SOG member. I could say that it was a dark and stormy night and mother nature was not kind to us, but the truth is, it was 1.30 am, the moon was clear and full, and there wasn’t even a breath of wind when we walked down a laneway to gain access to the rear of the target property where the pair was living. I would also like to say that we were stealth-like in our approach, but unfortunately every footstep was audible as our boots crunched down on crushed gravel. All we could do to limit the noise was step in sync. Have I ever been scared on the job? I can honestly say that no, I haven’t. But have I ever had a fright that nearly gave me a heart attack? Yes – that night.

As we continued down the laneway, we came to the perfect location to climb a neighbouring fence and gain access to the property. The fence was a scalable height, it was solid and there were no obstructions. We clamped onto the top, pulled ourselves up and slowly raised our heads, peering over. The moonlight afforded us great visibility. Seeing no danger, we each threw a leg over and straddled the palings. Then, without warning, there was an extraordinary noise that almost pierced our eardrums. We both fell backwards, landing on our backs with an almighty thud in the gravel laneway. Holding my chest, feeling like my heart was about to explode, I looked over at my partner, who was doing the same. ‘What the fuck was that?’ he asked.

‘Was that a … goat?’

We dusted ourselves off then performed another chin-up and looked back into the yard, trying to identify the culprit. And there, sure enough, were three goats. I muttered, ‘bloody goats’, then suggested we approach from the other side.

Asling and Barci were now under constant surveillance, and intelligence was being gathered by a number of agencies. But when a McDonald’s restaurant in Greensborough was held up by two men armed with firearms, that surveillance had been temporarily suspended due to budget constraints and cost blowouts – 24-hour surveillance is extremely expensive. As a result, although detectives were sure Asling and Barci were the culprits, there was no evidence.

To the surprise of the detectives, the duo soon became a trio when notorious criminal Norman Lee came in on the job. Lee was the only person ever charged with the famous 1976 Great Bookie Robbery, where it is alleged between $14 and $16 million was stolen (the equivalent of more than $80 million today). The real amount was never confirmed, as the bookie refused to admit how much income they’d been receiving lest they implicate themselves with the tax office and come under investigation. Lee was found with a large quantity of cash after the robbery, and was unable to explain where it had come from, but still, he escaped a conviction.

Once detectives figured out the freight terminal was a target, we headed there to suss it out and get an idea of its layout. We continued to sit on them everywhere they went. The suspects were in Brighton one day, then back at the airport, then in Moorabbin, and they were soon observed checking out the bakery in Brunswick. They visited these sites on numerous occasions, studying the routines followed by staff, how things operated and when the Armaguard trucks would arrive.

On our way to the airport for the fourth or fifth time, there was a different level of expectation – this time most of us thought the job was finally going to go off. The surveillance team called in over the radio to say the trio was on the move, with each member of the gang in a separate stolen vehicle. Two of those were secreted in other locations a few kilometres away, and would no doubt be used as changeover vehicles during their escape. We were also told they had high-powered rifles, which had been tested and fired in a forest close to Melbourne. One of the vehicles was parked at the Gladstone Park Shopping Centre, just as it had been the previous week, while the other two continued towards the airport. The second vehicle was left on a street close to the airport, with all three suspects in a white Ford panel van with rear barn doors. The reason for those doors didn’t become apparent to us until much later in the afternoon. Asling was the driver, with Barci and Lee in the rear.

It was just after 1 pm when they arrived outside the freight terminal. Just as they’d done on previous occasions, Asling got out and raised the hood to make it look like they’d run into engine trouble.

At 1.40 pm, the Armaguard truck arrived and the police radio fell silent. There was no need for further instructions; we knew what to do – wait until a robbery was conducted and then move in to make an arrest. It definitely would have been much easier and safer to arrest them upon their arrival, but we didn’t have enough information or evidence at that time. We could have blown the whole case if we’d intercepted them only to find that the cars were empty.

I was tasked with driving a cut-off vehicle to prevent their get away after a crime was committed. We were all on edge, waiting for some type of communication, but using the radio at this critical stage would have been a distraction. On an operation like this, with so many people positioned in different places, we were all seeing the situation unfold from a different perspective. Those on the scene watched the arrival of the Armaguard truck as it reversed into a space right in front of the freight centre. The armed guards opened the rear door of the truck and placed a number of red bags full of cash onto the raised walkway ramp. Barci and Lee watched intently as the guards proceeded to slowly drag the heavy bags towards the entrance to the facility.

As this was happening, Asling closed the hood of the panel van, climbed back behind the wheel and reversed with speed towards the front of the Armaguard truck. He slammed on the brakes, allowing Barci and Lee to jump out. No one could tell who was who, as they were both wearing rubber Michael Jackson masks. As the guards entered the facility, which was airside of the airport (the part of an airport nearest the aircraft, and beyond security and passport control) they had to leave their weapons behind, as required by federal law. It was clear the bandits knew this, and were counting on it. Barci and Lee followed the guards in and confronted them, snatching a number of red bags from them. The unarmed guards were forced face-down onto the floor; there was nothing they could do.

While the hold-up was going to plan as far as Barci and Lee were concerned, they hadn’t considered how much the bags would weigh, and had no idea what was awaiting them outside. If they’d been expecting to easily carry the bags back to the van, they were sorely mistaken; they weighed a significant amount. With great effort, they dragged the bags out of the terminal and down the ramp to the waiting panel van, which now had its rear barn doors wide open, ready to accept the loot.

The police covert van arrived and moved in front of the offender’s panel van, then the SOG members inside deployed from the side and rear. Barci, Lee and three red bags were now in the rear of the panel van and Asling, seeing the arrival of the SOG arrest team, slammed down the accelerator. The departure was so rapid it caught Lee and Barci by surprise, and both spilled out of van, along with one of the bags. Spooked, and now in a panic, Asling left his comrades for dead and continued to speed away. Lee and Barci sprang to their feet, only to be confronted by the SOG arrest team, all heavily armed. Lee pointed his .357 Smith & Wesson revolver at two SOG officers. It was a bad move – the boys opened fire.

Barci fired a round from his .38 Smith & Wesson revolver, with the bullet striking the ground near one of the men. He was immediately fired upon, and was struck numerous times in the shoulder and back with SSG (Special Small Game) rounds from a shotgun.

Upon hearing the first shots, I hit the accelerator of the brand-new Nissan Patrol 4WD, which I’d borrowed from another department specifically for today’s operation. I’d promised to return it in mint condition, as it only had 1000 kilometres on the odometer. I turned onto Depot Drive, heading in a westerly direction when I saw the offender’s panel van coming from the north, down Service Road. I could see one of the rear barn doors swinging open as it turned. We were on a collision course, with only a small central median strip separating us. I pressed down harder on the pedal to gain as much speed as possible. I figured that the size of his vehicle meant it would come off second best in a collision. Anticipating how this was likely to unfold, I buckled my seatbelt, then glanced over my shoulder at the man in the back passenger seat and gave him a look that clearly said ‘oh, shit!’

Asling showed no signs of slowing down. I managed to pull my seatbelt over my ballistic and tactical vest and made sure it was secure. Our instructions from that morning’s briefing session echoed through my mind: ‘If you are going to park ’em, park ’em good!’ ‘Parking them’ meant stopping them with force using another vehicle.

As Asling was on the other side of the road and unaware the white Patrol coming towards him was, in fact, an unmarked police car, I was careful not to cross the median strip too early and risk giving him the opportunity to avoid a collision. Not many people get to go to work and smash a car. The perks of my job were sometimes too good to be true.

As the vehicle got closer, I could see that the person in the driver’s seat was wearing a mask that disguised him as an elderly person, with shoulder-length, fair-coloured hair.

The speedometer had just hit 90 kilometres per hour when I turned the steering wheel sharply to the right and bounced the car over the concrete median strip. Asling attempted to swerve to avoid us, but it was too late. A split second prior to impact, I removed my hands from the steering wheel to prevent injury and clenched my teeth so I wouldn’t break any. The impact was immense; our vehicles met with astonishing force.

Fortunately, the Nissan was fitted with an extremely heavy bull bar and winch, which took the brunt of the crash. As for the Ford panel van – it was destroyed, and the engine nearly breached the driver’s compartment. The moment we made impact, all four of us exited the vehicle. I maintained a covering position with my fifteen shot semi-automatic pistol drawn, while two others wrenched Asling from the van. My partner then moved down the side of the van and opened the rear door, while I covered with my 9 mm to make sure there were no other threats within the van.

Inside, I saw two large red bags, an AR180 .233 semi-automatic rifle with two fully loaded magazines taped end to end, and an AR10 7.62 semi-automatic rifle, again with two fully loaded magazines taped end to end. These were serious weapons – clearly these guys meant business. At that point, the reason for acquiring a vehicle with rear doors became clear to us. In the event the police gave chase, they would be able to open the two rear doors of the panel van and fire upon those pursuing them. Both of these weapons would have done incredible damage. Pondering that scenario, we could only count our lucky stars that Barci and Lee fell out of the van when they did.

Once the rear was clear, I proceeded to the front of the van. Asling was lying on the median strip, covered by the other two SOG members. My sergeant had blood all over his face. ‘What the hell happened to you?’ I asked him. Without hesitation, he replied, ‘You put my head through the fucken windscreen!’

‘Well, you’ll put your seatbelt on next time, won’t you?’ I retorted smugly.

I pushed my knee into Asling’s back and proceeded to secure him with zip ties.

It was later confirmed that Lee was dead. Another death, and another impending Homicide Squad interrogation. Those directly involved in the shooting had their weapons confiscated and their fingers swabbed for gunshot residue. While the families of those directly involved were told that their partners had been involved in a serious incident, but were safe and unharmed physically, everyone else’s loved ones found out by watching the news, and were left to fret until we all arrived home in one piece.

The three offenders took possession of $1,025,000 during the armed robbery, and held that sum for all of two minutes. It’s believed they were expecting $2,000,000. In celebration, we took a photo of everyone who’d been involved in taking them down, posing with the money – and then were patted down and searched as we left the room. It seemed there was little trust left in the world, even among fellow police officers!

This operation marked a turning point in the apprehension of known armed offenders prior to a crime being conducted, due to concerns about the number of innocent people within the area who could have been harmed – not to mention the guards and staff inside the terminal. While it’s not for me to question, I believe a number of us would have been shot and possibly killed if we had attempted to arrest the trio prior to the robbery, particularly considering the amount of fire power the men had at their disposal.

Asling survived the crash with minor cuts and abrasions and was sentenced to a minimum of ten years in prison for three armed robberies. Barci was severely impaired as a result of the gunshots to his shoulder, and was sentenced to fifteen years with a minimum of ten for three armed robberies.

Upon his release, Asling went straight back to what he knew best: crime. He is now, once again, behind bars, serving a 27-year sentence for the murder of Melbourne underworld figure Graham Kinniburgh. Asling was found guilty of gunning down the notorious mobster in his driveway in December 2003. It is alleged that he’d been hired by underworld kingpin Carl Williams, who was killed by Matthew Johnson with the seat of an exercise bike in Barwon Prison in 2010.

In a bizarre twist, Barci laid low after serving his time. Each year, on the anniversary of the attempted armed robbery of the Armaguard van, he and the Special Operations Group member who shot him catch up for a drink and argue over who fired the first shot.

6

TAKE ME TO THE RIVER

It was very rare to get called to a scene and have it be over quickly. As the police force’s last resort, the SOG was often on standby to step in when there was no other option available.

When the unit was still in its infancy, the community had less patience than it does now, and there was demand for siege situations to be resolved quickly so people could get back to their normal lives. Nowadays, it’s the opposite. If there’s no immediate threat to anyone’s safety, the SOG and similar units might wait days for an offender to simply grow tired, get hungry or become bored and surrender.

I recall a job we had one Christmas morning that involved an armed divorcee who was upset that he wasn’t allowed to see his children. The man had broken into his ex-wife’s home and taken his family hostage, saying he wanted to be there when his two kids woke up so he could watch them unwrap their presents.

Our Inspector, Doug O’Loughlin, keen to ensure his men would make it home in time to watch their own kids unwrap their presents, thought of an ingenious way to end all the drama peacefully. Just before sunrise, he ordered the men to throw stones at the kids’ bedroom windows to wake them up. It was a brilliant plan. Woken by the noise, the kids rushed straight to the Christmas tree. The offender watched them open their gifts and then surrendered. That kind of approach wouldn’t be allowed today, so on most occasions we just had to wait it out.

We were located approximately 200 metres from the Police Air Wing (aka helicopter) at the command post when we heard shots had been fired and that an SOG member had been hit. When you hear the words ‘member down’, your heart sinks. It’s a brutal reminder that you’re human, which may sound silly, but in our line of work, it’s easy to forget. We spend so much time training, both physically and tactically, that we build up a sort of superiority complex. That may not be the best way to describe it, but we sometimes feel we are invincible. We are usually stronger, smarter, more sophisticated, better drilled and more advanced than our opponent, and above all, we overwhelm them with sheer weight of numbers. If there’s one guy in a house, we are sending five to ten in to arrest him. We never knowingly go into a situation in an inferior position. That gives us a lot of confidence, and allows us to execute our plans to perfection.

Granted, on the odd occasion, things don’t go to plan, or we have to wander into the unknown – as was the case on this occasion, when one of our men was shot in bushland in Jamieson, a small town north-east of Melbourne that sits at the junction of the Goulburn and Jamieson rivers. ‘We have a man down’ were the exact words I heard over the radio, and the phrase was repeated with panic: ‘I repeat, we have a man down!’

So, there’s the feeling of being a mere mortal and there’s the other side of the coin: the person or people we’re dealing with are willing to try to kill a police officer. That’s a chilling realisation, and something no one underestimates. Yeah, we have criminals and offenders who will threaten us, but few are prepared to ‘walk the walk’. Only our country’s worst criminals have that attitude of, ‘If I’m going down, I’ll go down in a blaze of glory and take as many people with me as I can.’ Those who have already done time are more likely to adopt that approach, as they’ll do anything to avoid going back inside.

This desperation to avoid more jail time was something we encountered on the job in Jamieson. It was a typical warm Sunday afternoon in central Melbourne when all hell broke loose at the Melbourne Remand Centre (now the Melbourne Assessment Prison) – the place where criminals are held before they stand trial. Located on the corner of Spencer and LaTrobe streets in the heart of the CBD, the holding facility was rocked by an explosion on the third floor. I know the Remand Centre all too well. Prior to its opening, the Special Operations Group was asked to test the security of the building – which was supposed to be state-of-the-art. Due to security policy, I can only share limited details here, but I can tell you that when two members were placed within the exercise yard, one escaped a minute later. As a result of the breach, security in that location was significantly enhanced.

On 7 March 1993, two prisoners escaped from the Remand Centre in the most bizarre of circumstances. Peter Robert Gibb had numerous prior convictions, including manslaughter, armed robbery and many weapons offences dating back to when he was a teenager. This was not his first escape. In November 1981 he escaped from HM Prison Pentridge while awaiting a court hearing after being charged with murder and armed robbery. After his first escape, he managed to remain free for a month before being arrested in Coburg. He served his time and was released but was convicted again in February 1993, for the armed robbery of a security van in Sunshine that had occurred two years earlier in 1991. The other escapee, Archie Butterly, met Gibb in prison while he was serving time for false imprisonment and manslaughter. Many believe Butterly was the mastermind behind the escape, as Gibb was not the sharpest tool in the shed.

Gibb was in a relationship with a female prison guard, Heather Parker, who had recently separated from her husband. On one occasion Gibb and Parker were seen entering a linen cupboard on CCTV. When their relationship was discovered, Parker’s colleagues insisted she be transferred to another facility. Parker stayed loyal to Gibb, and visited him often. During one visit to the Remand Centre, she transferred a small amount of explosives to Gibb, along with a detonator.

On Sunday, 7 March 1993, the explosives and an electrical detonator were attached to a window on the third floor of the Remand Centre. The blast created enough room for the two to escape through the window. They had joined several bed sheets together, which they used as a rope to climb down to the ground. Witnesses said they saw one of the men fall from a significant height, and observed him hobble away.

Over the next hour, there were a number of accidents on the roads in and around the city as the fugitives attempted to flee. They commandeered a motorbike, which they crashed, causing further injury to themselves. Gibbs broke his arm and Butterly suffered significant internal damage. After the motorbike accident they were confronted by two police officers in a divisional van. Shots were exchanged, and a constable was shot twice, once in the shoulder and once in the chest. His .38 revolver was stolen, along with the van. The pair then headed to their rendezvous location, where Parker was waiting in a Suzuki.

The trio travelled south to Frankston and swapped the Suzuki for a Mitsubishi Pajero 4WD, then headed to regional Victoria, stopping at Latrobe Regional Hospital in Traralgon for treatment along the way.

With news of the escape, the SOG was put on standby to conduct an arrest once the whereabouts of the criminals was confirmed. For the next four days, there was no sign of them, however; all leads had gone cold.

Late Thursday afternoon, three people arrived at the Gaffneys Creek Hotel, one of the oldest hotels in Victoria. Generally only busy on weekends with 4WD enthusiasts and campers, the owner of the pub was greeted by a couple who requested a room for themselves and their child. It was in fact Parker and Gibb, who also managed to smuggle Butterly in without raising any suspicion. When guests complained about someone groaning and making noise, Gibb and Parker explained that their child was ill and would be remaining in the room during dinner. In attempting to create a disguise, Gibb had unintentionally brought unwanted attention to himself. He had thick black hair, and had tried to shave the top of his head to make out he was bald, but he’d completely botched the job. Instead of remaining incognito, the locals made fun of the bloke with the weird hairdo.

For whatever reason – some say it was a deliberate act, while others claim a log had dislodged and rolled out of the fireplace – the Gaffneys Creek Hotel burned down that night. It was later determined that the inferno started in Parker and Gibb’s room, and was likely a deliberate act as they tried to hide evidence. Butterly was losing a lot of blood due to his injuries, and must have made quite a mess.

During the blaze, the owners of the pub had to account for all the guests, but couldn’t locate the three occupants of that room. Further, their vehicle was no longer parked outside. Local police attended and commenced an investigation. By that time it was early on Friday morning, and detectives had received a description of the missing vehicle and the pair that had rented the room. Based on the descriptions given, police assumed they were now on the trail of Gibb and Parker. Cordons and roadblocks were set up, and the Special Operations Group was finally called in.

Jobs like this are automatically assigned to the ‘Duty Team’ – the team that’s active at that particular time. This is considered the fairest way to assign jobs, ensuring that the same people aren’t nominated each time. It’s a luck of the draw system, ensuring that the operations and tasks get shared around fairly, and there’s no perception of the officers in charge giving the good jobs to their mates.

It was confirmed that the fugitives had been seen in the township, and as I was part of the on Duty Team, I assumed I would be flying to the location by helicopter. Knowing we were headed to the country, where clear landing spots could be compromised by trees, forests and/or uneven terrain, I organised roping equipment in case we needed to be deployed from the air. Just as I’d got the equipment sorted, I was told I would be required to drive a 4WD, because they wanted another sniper up there sooner rather than later. I was so pissed off with that decision – I knew the guys in the chopper would get up there before me and it could all be over before I arrived. I wanted to scream, ‘But I’m on the Duty Team!’ I wasn’t happy, but I had to swallow my disapproval. Instead, I simply replied, ‘No problems. Anything else you need me to do?’

I dropped off the other Duty Team members, plus the extra sniper, at the hangar where the Air Wing is stationed, then high-tailed it to Jamieson. I was intent on beating the helicopter there. Fortunately for me, the helicopter was refuelling and delayed. I buried my disappointment at not being on the chopper and reminded myself I was living out my boyhood dream: looking for fugitives, and using guns and explosives. I never got used to the fact I was getting paid for this!

Later on Friday afternoon, we rendezvoused at the Command Post on the ground in Jamieson. There were concerns that the roadblocks and cordons had been set up too late and the fugitives had already slipped through. As a crew, we were fairly light-on, as we had other operations running at the same time throughout Victoria.

We’d been divided into two teams: a road crew and an air crew, which alternated each day. I was on the road crew for the first afternoon. We travelled to Gaffneys Creek and checked every camping spot and walking track along the way. Radio and phone communication wasn’t great, so once we’d departed the township of Jamieson, we were on our own. The aircrew was on stand-by to conduct the occasional patrol, or investigate if we called in something suspicious in the bush or in an inaccessible area. The day panned out uneventfully, and we started to wonder whether Gibb, Butterly and Parker had gotten away again. The weekend was fast approaching, and we knew that despite many police warnings for people to stay away, not everyone would heed the message and the town could still be inundated with people coming up to camp and walk the various bush trails, which was problematic. Media alerts had been issued, warning people that there were dangerous, armed fugitives on the run and potentially in the area. Roadblocks remained in place, and pamphlets were handed out giving a description of the vehicle and the escapees.

The road team was divided up to investigate some holiday shacks – especially those that would be vacant over the weekend. I was teamed with four detectives and another member of the SOG. As the SOG representatives, we were simply there to assist, not take charge, and were a little concerned about seeking access to properties without warrants. On one occasion, we walked up a gravel driveway and watched as the detectives started running ahead. We were perplexed by their approach, as the vehicle in the driveway didn’t fit the description of the fugitives’, yet the officers forcibly opened the front door. Hearing a scream coming from inside, we quickly entered the house, where we were greeted by a number of startled young men who were visiting for the weekend, using their parents’ house for a getaway. We calmed them down, offered our apologies for the interruption, and promptly left. We then had a stern word with the detectives about showing more restraint and professionalism.

By 1 am on Saturday it was decided we would remain on stand-by but get some sleep, as the next couple of days would be busy with further searches and patrols. As the sun came up, the population swelled with holidaymakers who had ignored the warnings in the media. The nightly news crews also started converging on the town.

The next day, my team switched functions and became the air crew. Me and two other members were deployed to the helicopter, and reports soon came in of a potential sighting in a nearby town. We headed off and checked some mountain huts along the way – landing close by and setting out on foot to inspect each of them. The early morning fog had lifted, giving us spectacular views of the high country. Our search yielded no results, but just before midday, a couple stopped at a roadblock outside Jamieson reported that they had observed a vehicle hidden in bushes near a camping ground called Picnic Point.

The decision was made to ground the Air Wing, as flying over the area could alert the fugitives and cause them to panic and run. While we stayed on stand-by at the chopper, the rest of the men deployed with a member of the Dog Squad, his dog, Shamus, and a number of detectives. We were disappointed to be stuck on stand-by, but remained hopeful we would be required at some stage. It was a frustrating time knowing the fugitives were at large and could be located at any time and we’d miss out on all the fun. In these times you can have a massive case of FOMO and try to occupy yourself by checking your equipment, grabbing something to eat and drink. Most of the time though you’ll just find highly strung individuals like us pacing around in a shitty mood awaiting deployment.

‘Member down! I repeat, member down!’ the voice blasted over the radio. I leapt to my feet and hurried towards the chopper. We sprinted down the road; I couldn’t even feel the weight of my ballistic vest, helmet and weapons as we hurried past the media throng. Seeing a Steyr AUG (Army Universal Gun) magazine fall from another officer’s magazine holder, I yelled, ‘leave it!’, then reached down and scooped it up with one hand as I ran by it – handy skills picked up from years of playing football as a kid.

Within minutes we were airborne and yelling to each other through our headsets. The noise from the downward draught of the blades was a lot louder than normal, as we had removed the chopper’s doors so that the fast-rope could be used. Our pilot was unbelievable. Knowing the gravity of the situation, with an officer shot and in need of urgent assistance, he gave the helicopter everything it could take. Our sniper and I caught each other’s eyes – we were shaking our heads and cursing in the knowledge one of our mates had been shot.

We had no idea how bad the situation was, as the lines of communication were poor, so we naturally started imagining the worst – that one of our own had been killed. I could feel anger billowing up inside me, but I had to control it; I couldn’t let it impact my actions. Adrenaline was pumping hard through my veins as the helicopter swiftly glided above the Goulburn River, skimming over massive gum trees and sashaying from left to right, following the path of the river. We held on for our lives, literally – there were no doors, no seats and no seatbelts.

The nose of the chopped lifted and the machine came to a sudden halt – we’d arrived at Picnic Point, approximately ten minutes after the calls of ‘man down’ had been conveyed. We hovered above the Mansfield-Woods Point Road and deployed the fast-rope. We were at the maximum height; the rope barely touched the ground as it unravelled. The sniper went first, and the man who was to go second was fiddling with his roping gloves, so I jumped the queue. You snooze, you lose, I thought.

We were acutely aware that we could be exposed to gunfire from below, but didn’t consider for a second not sliding down that rope. As I was abseiling down at about 8 feet per second, the chopper suddenly jolted and shifted its position. The rope was now dangling over the embankment of the Goulburn River. In these circumstances, when you get to the end of the rope you have to immediately let go, as there’s another person coming down who will land on top of you if you don’t get out of the way.

Having no idea what was beneath me, I let go and fell about 3 metres. I hit a steep embankment and cartwheeled down to the Goulburn River. This awkward dismount was witnessed by a number of members on the ground, who thought I’d broken both my legs. Fortunately uninjured, I regained my footing and sprinted back up the embankment, making it back to the top just as the third member reached the ground. This 30-metre fast-roping manoeuvre marked the first time any police force in Australia had assaulted or roped into an active shootout.

We ran south and met our inspector and other detectives, who were standing over a male and female lying on the road, their firearms drawn. It was Gibb and Parker. That left Butterly still at large. We were directed to a bush track that ran down to the Goulburn River, and proceeded along it until we located the Mitsubishi Pajero, which was covered with tree branches and foliage. We pulled the camouflage away and checked the vehicle to make sure it was empty. Then we heard a voice. It was the SOG officer who had been shot. We found him hiding in a thick blackberry bush and checked his injury. The bullet had travelled through his trouser leg and nicked his rear lower leg.

When we saw the extent of his injury, we took the piss out of him, which I regretted in hindsight. One member said, ‘It’s nothing a bandage can’t fix!’ We often used that sort of humour to cope in serious situations, but it wasn’t always appropriate. Knowing what he and the other members had been through, we should have been more supportive. They had come under heavy fire, with bullets whizzing past them, and had been in fear for their lives; it wasn’t the time to make fun of them.

With Butterly on the loose, the situation was far from over. We were compromised and out in the open. At any stage, we could be fired upon. The three of us slid into the river and made our way downstream to the other SOG members. I was submerged in the biting cold water, keeping my head above the surface and trying to protect my radio and Steyr. Around 15 to 20 metres downstream we found another officer, who had been laying down giving great covering fire. He was lying in a prone position at the river’s edge, shaking from the cold. He pointed towards the western bank and whispered, ‘Over there. That’s where the shots have been coming from.’

At first glance, I couldn’t see anything, just dense bushland. Butterly was well hidden, and he had the drop on us. The officer gave more covering fire, spraying the gunman’s location with a volley of quick bursts so that our sniper could run across the open ground and get a better angle on him. The sniper found a large gum tree on the western bank, then laid covering fire from that position as I darted across an 8-metre-wide beach. Under more covering fire, the third member of our fast-rope team broke cover to cross the beach to join me.

From my position I could see the police dog handler and his dog, Shamus, approximately 7 metres away, huddled in a blackberry bush, having come under heavy fire. We needed to get him out of that spot, as it was incredibly dangerous, and he was very exposed. The sniper made his way down to the dog handler’s position and lay over the bushes so the handler could crawl to safety.

One of our members and the sniper were now with the dog handler and Shamus, while I was about 12 metres away with the other officer. A few minutes later, Shamus was let loose by the handler, and he charged into the bushes where the shots had come from. After about ten minutes, Shamus returned with blood on his nose and mouth.

I was directed to make my way across the river and get to higher ground on the eastern side, where I could gain an effective flanking position and give observations. I retreated back about a hundred metres so I wouldn’t be seen crossing the river – it would be around 1.5 metres deep at that location, and I was trying to protect my radio from water ingress. As I started to climb up the embankment, I had to push through about 7 metres of thick, nasty blackberry bushes. Once I got through them, I made my way further in so I could move back towards the active scene without drawing any attention.

I was now approximately 20 metres higher and 15 metres from the river, with a commanding view of the western bank. From that position I could make out a blue bag on the beach near some bushes approximately 50 metres from where the other members were positioned. Using the telescopic sight on my .223 Steyr long-arm weapon, I could see clothing through the bushes, and assumed someone was laying in the prone position. I radioed in my observations and the exact location, describing the surrounding trees and vegetation. We decided to throw a nine-banger distraction grenade onto the target to see if there was any movement. It gave off nine loud blasts in quick succession – BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!– that echoed down the valley, sending birds into the air, screeching in alarm. Despite all the commotion, there was no movement, and I was conscious it could just be a pile of clothes. From that distance, there was no way of determining if it was an actual person.

I was directed to provide cover while the other SOG members closed in on the blue bag and clothes that I had spotted. I locked my weapon’s sights on the colours I could see in the bushes, ready to fire. The men were close now – in fact, they were right on top of the target position and there was still no threat to their safety. The message came over the radio: ‘Confirming we have located the third target, and he is deceased.’

With the threat now over and the scene secured, I started to feel the cold. I was wet from neck to toe, but my day was far from done. I had to remain in position, just in case something unexpected happened, or in case the person we’d found wasn’t actually Butterly, and the real Butterly was still at large. When the deceased had been properly identified, I was called back to the rendezvous point and directed to conduct an Explosive Ordnance Reconnaissance (EOR). Knowing the fugitives had used explosives once already at the Remand Centre, I had to search for possible booby traps or surplus explosives – thankfully, I didn’t find any.

Although one member had been shot, we were unable to talk about what had occurred, as Butterly’s death was technically in police custody. Sunlight was fading fast, so we returned to Jamieson, where we were all finger-swabbed for gunshot residue and interviewed by the Homicide Squad. Those of us who had been in the water were all starting to shake, as none of us had brought any additional clothing. We jumped into the helicopter and flew back to Melbourne, then drove back to our office where we could finally enjoy a hot shower. By then it was 11 pm, and we had been soaking wet since about 2 pm.

When I finally got home at 1 am and climbed into bed, Jann briefly woke. ‘How was the job?’ she asked me. ‘Is everybody okay?’

I replied, ‘Yep. All good. I don’t have to be at work until 10 am’. She had no idea exactly what had happened or what I’d been through – but in those days, that’s how it was.

In the following weeks we received official word from the coroner that Butterly’s death was caused by a single gunshot to the side of his head with the same .38 pistol that had been stolen from the police officer on the day he’d escaped the Remand Centre. Allegations began to emerge, especially from the criminal underground, that the SOG had executed Butterly. However, the coroner later ruled out any police involvement, as we had different calibre weapons.

Gibb and Parker claimed it was suicide, but the coroner ruled that this was unlikely, saying it was ‘a mystery’, and that he could have been shot by one of his two accomplices. I believe that with his injuries from the fall at the Remand Centre, then the car and motorcycle accident, Gibb and Parker knew he was going to die. I later learnt he was haemorrhaging so badly he had stuffed toilet paper in his rectum to stem the flow of blood.

Many more blanks were filled in for me in the days following the event, too. Talking to my colleagues, I learnt of the circumstances that led up to the shootout. I was told the SOG members that first arrived at Picnic Point, along with the Dog Squad member, Shamus, and detectives, parked their vehicles some distance away to limit the chance of being compromised by the fugitives. The detectives stayed on the road to maintain a cordon and prevent the fugitives from escaping, if they were still in the area, while the remaining SOG members began the search with the Dog Squad member and Shamus to where the Pajero had been spotted.

When they discovered the vehicle, Shamus picked up a fresh scent. The Dog Squad member continued to lead the search, with the SOG members directly behind for protection, and they continued to follow the river-line, ending up approximately 20 metres from the Pajero on a small, exposed beach area. Shamus indicated something was in the immediate area, so an SOG member moved to the front of the group.

At approximately 2 pm, a series of six or seven shots from a high-powered rifle were fired at the group in quick succession, and that’s when the SOG officer was struck. Everyone dived for cover, although there wasn’t much on offer expect for those damn blackberry bushes. One member returned fire, unloading a full magazine into the bushland where he perceived the initial shots to be coming from. After discharging 30 rounds from his Steyr, he rolled into the river, conducted an incredible underwater magazine reload, then resurfaced and fired another 20 rounds. The other members laid down covering fire as they scrambled for cover for themselves. Someone could be heard moaning and breathing heavily, but they couldn’t tell who it was – although we now assume it was Butterly as Parker and Gibb must have fled.

Looking back on it all now, those men all had Shamus to thank for their lives that day. If he didn’t pick up that scent and essentially sound an alarm of sorts, they could all be dead.

7

SNOW WHITE AND THE DIRTY DWARF

In 1994 I was brought on to Operation Snowgum to assist drug squad detectives in locating a vast marijuana plantation hidden within the Tanjil State Forest in the West Gippsland region of Victoria. The Police Air Wing had spotted the crop during a routine patrol, but a ground crew was now required to access and assess it. It had an estimated 4000 plants with a ballpark value of $6 million – a substantial find back in those days.

Over the years, I’d been involved in a number of big crop busts, and had gathered a lot of evidence through hours of painstaking surveillance and stake-outs. But times were changing, and fast. More and more growers were using highly sophisticated and well-hidden hydroponic systems in houses and factories, rather than risking large crops on outdoor plantations. With that in mind, this was a significant find, and one that was becoming increasingly rare.

A team I wasn’t on had arrived in Warragul for a briefing and were ready to head out on foot the very next day. After a three-hour hike through dense bush, they located the massive crop. The team sat off the plantation for several hours and were able to establish there was no one guarding the plants. When the team returned to the local police station, the investigators requested more photographic evidence and further observations to help them establish a plan to capture and destroy the crop.

Luck was on my side that evening, as two members had to return to Melbourne – one fell ill after a dodgy hamburger, and the other had to attend to a family emergency. I was called in to replace them, along with another sergeant, who would lead the team.

When we arrived on the scene, we would be required to abseil from the helicopter through 45-metre-high gum trees, secure the crop and surrounding area, and provide cover while the helicopter fetched specialist members and investigators, who would also be winched down. Talk about hitting the jackpot – this was my kind of job! This would be one of the first operational airborne tactical repels, and as a member of the roping team, I was in charge of preparing the necessary equipment. The excitement was palpable, and I barely slept a wink the night before.

I arrived at the office two hours early and gathered all the necessary equipment for the rappel and extraction. Each of the four members would rappel with a leg-bag containing 50 metres of rope. I opened a new 200-metre roll of 10-millimetre diameter rope. Outside our office was an extremely long corridor, where we had placed marks on the walls at various lengths. I now needed new marks for the 50 metres.

After cutting the ropes to length and preparing them meticulously, we headed to the heliport, which was located on the Yarra River at the rear of our office.

I hate being rushed when it comes to organising roping equipment, but after checking everything at least a dozen times, I started getting my other gear together: camouflage clothing, including my camouflage holster, my 9 millimetre SIG SAUER fifteen-shot semi-automatic pistol, extra magazines, my trusty .223 Steyr AUG rifle – a fantastic weapon, which is extremely robust and would be easy to manage when abseiling from the helicopter.

At 6.15 am the helicopter arrived at the rear heliport and once all the equipment was secured, we departed. The rear passenger seats had been removed to create room for the rappel, winching and extraction. We landed in Warragul at 7 am and were met by two other SOG officers, as well as members of the Bureau of Criminal Investigation technicians (BCI) and other detectives, for a safety briefing and dry run of rappelling procedures prior to departure to the target location.

All SOG members were fully kitted with their harnesses, leg-bags attached to their dominant side. I gave them a rundown on the process of roping out of the helicopter, what to do on the ground and then the extraction. I also spoke to the Air Wing dispatcher regarding our leg-bags, as once we left the helicopter, each rope would have to be pulled up individually to ensure none got snagged in a tree. If the pilot attempted to gain altitude with all four ropes dangling, it could cause a major issue.

The four leg-bags would have to be repacked by the Air Wing member prior to our extraction from the crop, so I had to demonstrate how to restuff them and make sure the re-directional knot wasn’t touched. If one of the ropes got caught in a tree and was unable to be recovered, the order was to retrieve the rest of them and release that rope from the Rappelling Attachment Device (RAD) inside the helicopter – and I would improvise something else for our extraction.

Once airborne from Warragul, we had to locate a clearing prior to flying to the crop so we could remove the doors from the helicopter in order to prevent any obstructions when rappelling or winching. After fifteen minutes, we found a paddock, where the doors were jettisoned. The end of the rappelling ropes were secured to the RAD, and the safety catch locked into place.

As the helicopter began to wind into action and the rotors started to spin, the noise was deafening without the doors attached. Grass and hay flew in all directions as the chopper rose up off the ground. We were on our way. The pilot flew towards the waypoints he had recorded some time ago, no doubt also feeling pretty pumped to be adding this dangerous abseil to his repertoire. That sort of job didn’t come around often, and would require a high level of skill from the man in the cockpit.

Fifteen minutes passed, then twenty; the anticipation was starting to build. The process of leaving the helicopter was repeatedly going through my mind. My mouth was dry and I desperately needed a drink, but my canteen was in my backpack and I couldn’t reach it from this position. My eyes were continually scanning the other men’s harnesses and equipment, even though I had checked them off numerous times before getting onto the helicopter. Better to be safe than sorry, I thought.

I also looked down at the RAD to reassure myself that all the ropes had been securely attached, and that the lever was in the down position with the red safety catch over the end of the release handle. It brought back memories of when I was training and qualifying members in the helicopter – we had four members on the outside skids 30 metres off the ground when the person I was qualifying pulled the red safety catch and was about to release the lever, which would have sent those members plummeting to the ground. Instinctively I threw myself across the lever, averting disaster. I remember the looks on those four members’ faces – their eyes were the size of saucers!

The dispatcher started talking on his headset, so I knew we must be close to our destination. He gave the 30-second warning and a sweep of his arm. The four of us exited the chopper and loaded onto the skids to decrease its forward momentum. We were not looking down; all eyes were focused on the dispatcher. The pilot monitored his altitude, knowing we only had 50 metres of rope, the dispatcher eyeballed the four of us and raised his hand. I looked down onto the tops of the giant trees below and my heart climbed into my throat for a brief second or two.

Ready, set … and then, with one sharp swoop, he dropped his hand … Go!

In one swift movement we instinctively moved our dominant roping hand out to the side of our body and partially opened that hand, causing us to fall away from the helicopter. This is safer than pushing off from the skids, which unbalances the aircraft and really annoys the pilot.

We began to descend in a controlled manner, checking our route as we flew down through the trees, trying not to get stabbed by a branch or worse, stuck in a tree, while also looking at where we were about to land and whether we were alone or about to be ambushed. While there’s little time to think in that moment as you hurtle towards the ground below at a staggering speed, I would be lying if I said I didn’t think about the strength of the various knots, carabiners and other attachments that kept me from plummeting to my death.

Once on the ground, we detached from our ropes. Two members, under the direction of the sergeant, immediately formed a perimeter and checked that we were, in fact, alone. I made radio contact with the helicopter, informing the pilot and dispatcher that all ropes were clear and could be retrieved.

As the chopper flew off into the distance and the sounds of the whirring engines faded, a strange sense of loneliness came over me. If something happened out here, the four of us were a hell of a long way from help.

The crop consisted of approximately 4000 plants, each about 10 centimetres in height. There was also a lot of irrigation tubing, surrounded by fencing designed to keep animals out, and two large green tents – one containing fertilisers and gardening equipment, the other to be used as a drying tent once the crop was harvested. We carefully monitored the surroundings for any sign of life, human or animal (guard dogs, to be more precise). Once satisfied we were alone, we gave the ‘all clear’ for the BCI detectives to be flown in and winched down to gather more evidence and photos. They arrived without issue and stayed on the ground for about an hour – we let them do their thing and manned the perimeter, watching closely in case the owners of the crop returned. An hour later, the chopper returned, winched the investigators out and took them back to Warragul.

Finally, in the mid-afternoon the chopper returned to extract the four of us. The four leg-bags had been repacked as per my instructions and had been attached to the RAD. The dispatcher threw each bag down, one from each doorway. On the ground, each member is supposed to grab a bag and attach the re-directional knot to their steel screw-gate carabiner, then pass their bag to the member on their right side. That member then attaches that bag to their own steel screw-gate. The purpose of this is to prevent a fall in the event your rope gets cut – if this happened, you would be attached to the member beside you, which would prevent you from falling to your likely death.

As the helicopter hovered above us, the bags were deployed. But as we were pulling the surplus rope out of the bag, it became apparent that the re-directional knots had been mistakenly undone.

‘Shit! Shit! Shit!’

I immediately grabbed all four ropes and pulled on them so I had tension on the helicopter. I placed my hand at an even position on each, then passed a rope to each member and had him position his hand in the exact spot I nominated, telling him not to move it under any circumstances. I looked up at the chopper, hoping it wouldn’t fly off, knowing this whole episode was causing an unfortunate and frustrating delay. As I held onto one rope, I tied a Figure 8 on the bight, then repeated this process on the three other lines. Yelling instructions over the sound of the chopper’s whirring engine and thundering rotor blades, we attached the Figure 8 on the bight to our own harnesses and passed our bag to our right-hand side.

The member on our right then attached the Figure 8 on the bight knot which was located on the bottom of the bag, to their harness. It was critical that the knots were all in the same location on the rope for each member so that we’d be hanging only from the helicopter – if one knot was lower than the others, that person would be hanging off the person beside him, which would be extremely painful and dangerous.

After a final check of everyone’s set-up and an unfortunate delay that seemed like hours, I contacted the aircrew and notified them that we were clear for extraction. Like an amusement ride, the pilot slowly raised us through the trees and continued to gain altitude. Finally, I could relax, as whatever happened from that point on was out of my control. For twenty minutes we dangled under the helicopter, laughing and taking photographs as we headed back to where the helicopter doors had been jettisoned hours earlier. The pilot, in a playful mood, dragged us a short distance through a nearby field before the ropes were released from the RAD. We returned to the station wearing smiles that didn’t fade until well into the night – it had been a sensational day, and a surreal experience. It was also a successful operation, a thrilling adventure and a moment in time that would remain etched in our memories forever.

Little did I know I’d be back at that crop just four and a half months later for another operation: Operation Snow White.

The air was thick with anticipation as our team of six prepared for another mission into the Tanjil State Forest. Information had come to hand that the huge marijuana plantation we’d previously attended was now ready for harvest. Those 4000 plants had now flowered – the buds had reached their peak potency and density, the pistils had darkened, and the trichomes had changed colour, from clear to milky white and finally to amber.

Unfortunately, there would be no helicopter insertion this time. Instead, we had to get to the crop on foot, and from the opposite direction, to ensure we wouldn’t run into the offenders.

Loaded with heavy gear – two 20-litre jerry cans filled with water, tents, provisions for six days, and our weapons – we were driven to the drop-off point. From there, we had a gruelling three-hour trek through the dense forest. Communications were limited, with the signal dropping in and out, meaning we had to find high ground to make contact with the command post back in Warragul. The stakes were extremely high; if anyone was injured, immediate assistance would be very hard to secure. We navigated our way through the forest with a compass, moving as quietly as possible to avoid being detected.

After three hours we neared the location of the crop and dropped all unnecessary equipment – tents, jerry cans and backpacks. In full camouflage, including ballistic vests and yowie suits. Yowie or ghillie suits, as they are also known, are loose-fitting garments made of netting or cloth that are covered in strips of twine or fabric resembling leaves or twigs. They’re designed to hide the outline of the body and help you blend into the foliage in the background. If you’re a Star Wars fan, think of the character Chewbacca – that’s what you look like in a yowie suit. We conducted weapon checks and tested our radios. With everything in order, our sergeant gave a final briefing, emphasising the need for a slow, quiet and cautious approach. The possibility of encountering armed offenders was high this time around, because the crop was ripe for the picking.

We advanced stealthily, inching our way through the thick scrub. About 50 metres ahead, I could make out the dark green tops of marijuana plants. Suddenly, shots rang out. I dropped to the ground and saw the others do the same. I waited with my head down, my heart pounding. Silence followed. I remained in a prone position as our sergeant formulated a plan. His instructions came through our earpieces: ‘Proceed in a prone position in single file … identify the shooter and assess the situation.’

After nearly an hour of crawling on my stomach like a caterpillar, I spotted a large male carrying a low-powered weapon – possibly a .22 or an air rifle. He appeared casual and not on high alert, and was moving towards a small tent. I was about 20 metres away from him. I watched as he turned towards the crop and raised his rifle, aimed and then fired another shot. I quickly realised he wasn’t shooting at any of us. He must have been targeting the birds that were feeding on the plants. Knowing we hadn’t been detected, our sergeant reassessed and formulated another plan.

‘Operator 30 and Operator 13, leave your weapons behind and execute an arrest without detection,’ he ordered.

With camouflage paint spread thickly over my face, I pulled my balaclava down so only my eyes remained uncovered. We inched forward, using the large green tent as cover, and positioned ourselves on either side of the tent. The offender, unaware of our presence, crouched down and leaned into the unzipped opening to place his rifle inside. I got a clear look at the weapon and identified it as an air rifle. The gun was low-powered and no real threat – if I took a slug to the body, it would probably sting like hell for a while, but it wouldn’t do any significant damage.

As the man backed out of the tent and got to his feet, I moved around behind him, lunged forward and grabbed him in a tight headlock, covering his mouth to prevent him from making any noise. My teammate secured his legs as I whispered sternly, ‘Police, don’t fucking move.’ He struggled briefly before I warned him again, ‘I said “don’t fucking move”.’ Realising he had no chance of escape, the tension went out of his muscles and he surrendered. We gagged him and secured him with flexi-cuffs, and recovered a loaded .32 calibre revolver from his pocket. It appeared this man was the only person on the site. With that knowledge, the bushes came to life as our other team members got to their feet and emerged from their leafy hideouts.

We interrogated the offender, who was Bosnian, and ascertained he was guarding the crop from thieves. He wouldn’t divulge more information for fear of his family’s safety. He said the pistol wasn’t intended to be used on police; it was to protect the crop from thieves who had been stealing from it, and from other crops that his big bosses owned all over the state. The crop was lush and healthy with its plants now standing 2–2.5 metres tall – a stark contrast to the tiny 10-centimetre babies I’d seen only a few months ago. But it was obvious a large portion had been cut down and stolen, just as the Bosnian alleged.

Another team member and I escorted the Bosnian out and found a location where we could get a signal and contact command. Within three hours, he was in the custody of the drug squad detectives. Our job though, was far from over. We were ordered to stay on-site for three more days to monitor any further activity. A quick message was sent to my wife, and the families of the other men, to let them know we’d be away a while longer.

We set up camp and took positions around the crop, enduring persistent rain and damp, cold conditions. Leeches were a constant nuisance; we picked them off each other’s backs, faces and necks. On the second day, I was assigned to the plantation’s marijuana drying tent, and while I was grateful for the reprieve from the miserable conditions outside, it wasn’t without its own issues. This tent was full of freshly harvested plants, covering the floor and hanging by string lines attached to the roof. The pungent and potent aroma of the dried-out buds gave me a splitting headache that lasted for two days – a lesson learned the hard way.

After three days and no further activity, we received orders to secure the crop for removal and destruction. A botanist arrived to assess the plants, while other police units came to assist in uprooting and netting them so they could be airlifted to a secure facility for destruction.

Operation Snow White was a success, but another chapter awaited us. For now though, we headed back home with our spirits high.

The memories of Operation Snow White were fading fast as new tasks and other operations demanded my time and attention. But my next mission would be different from anything I’d experienced before, and ended up being about wrapping up some loose ends that had quietly unravelled behind the scenes.

Our briefing on this job was short and strange. We were asked to assist the District Task Group in intercepting a burglary at a hydroponics supplier in Thomastown, 16 kilometres north of the CBD. While on the surface, the job seemed straightforward, it was anything but. It involved what appeared to be a legal business selling equipment to farmers and hobbyists, but on reflection, the details we received were vague, and the investigators seemed unusually reticent to engage with us in a meaningful way. With the little information we had, we prepared for what we all assumed would be a long and uneventful night.

At 8 pm we made our way to the location and positioned ourselves strategically around the factory. Early evening traffic still bustled by, so we remained hidden, avoiding detection by pedestrians and passing cars. I was stationed at the front of the premises (White Side), while others took positions at Black Side (the rear), Green Side and Red Side (the two sides of the building).

Hours passed in silence, and nothing happened. Midnight came and went without any movement, and by 1 am, the monotony had become mind-numbing. Then a strange noise caught my attention. ‘Can you hear someone snoring?’ I whispered to my partner. We listened carefully – sure enough, one of our team members had fallen asleep. A swift nudge woke him, and we stifled our laughter, knowing his unforgivable lapse of concentration would be dealt with sternly during the debrief. It is not uncommon for members to close their eyes for a few seconds while doing surveillance in a vehicle, knowing others are still alert or standing by for an operation, but you never fall asleep out in the field. And even if you fall asleep in vehicle, you generally get woken up by someone emptying their water canteen on your groin. To fall asleep out in the field is a big red flag, and anyone doing so loses all trust and confidence in them from their teammates. We put our lives on the line on a daily basis, and the reliance we place on each other can be the difference between life or death.

At 2 am, members on the Black Side observed two figures trying to gain access through the roof of the factory. The arrest signal was given, and within minutes, both suspects were in handcuffs and had been handed over to the investigators. The whole thing seemed anticlimactic, and almost too easy.

A few days later, the full story emerged, revealing a web of deceit that left us all stunned. It turned out that Operation Snow White had been compromised from the very start. During our initial helicopter task, where we assessed the crop and took photos, a police officer had been feeding information to other criminals, revealing the location of the marijuana plantation. Our Bosnian guard had told us that crops were being stolen, and it turned out he wasn’t just being paranoid.

Investigators also discovered that these criminals, who had obtained so much insider knowledge, had even considered storming the police station where the confiscated marijuana had been stored.

This hydroponics burglary was, in fact, a set-up – a trap to catch the mole. The arrest was not just about the burglars; it was about exposing the betrayal within police ranks. It turned out detectives had fed the dirty cop the information about the supposed marijuana operation at the hydroponics factory and observed him passing that information on to a gang of criminals.

The officer responsible for the leak was not from our unit, but his actions cast a shadow over our entire operation and the wider police force. The hydroponics bust, which had seemed such a mundane task, turned out to be the final piece in a much larger puzzle, revealing the depths of corruption that had infiltrated our wider organisation. The revelation was a bitter pill to swallow. We prided ourselves on integrity and trust, but those values had now been tainted by a betrayal from within.

In the end, the operation was a sobering lesson in trust and loyalty, a reminder that even the strongest bonds can be tested and tempted, and that justice, though sometimes delayed, will always prevail.

8

HUNTERS BECOME THE HUNTED

‘Get in there and find ’em! Get ’em, boys!’ The voice, somewhat excited but also agitated, repeatedly boomed out instructions that echoed across the semi-rural property. An eerie silence followed, and it felt like nature was also holding its breath, waiting to see what would happen next.

As one of the ‘’ems’ this guy was referring to, it was hard not to wonder what type of rabid creatures he was summoning to sniff out our scent.

It was February 1995, and I was part of the ‘cut-off’ team. We were positioned out the back to ensure the offender couldn’t escape via the rear of the property and disappear into the surrounding bush when the assault team began their advance at the front. Situated approximately fifteen metres from a large aluminium garage, and around 50 metres north-east of the premises, I could only see the rear of the house, and my view was largely obscured by the vegetation and shed.

‘Find ’em! Come on, boys! Go get ’em!’ the man continued. With every command he issued to the mystery beasts roaming in the bushes, the suspense built, and I knew it would only be a matter of time before one of them picked up an unfamiliar aroma – that of mine or my partner’s.

I felt my heart rate increase with every whisper of wind that rustled a leaf or caused a tree branch to creak, expecting to see a Doberman, Rottweiler, Great Dane, pit bull terrier or some other aggressive breed of dog appear and launch itself at my neck.

The dogs started barking incessantly, but thankfully, they sounded a fair way off our position – about 50 metres, I’d say at a guess, but likely closing in, and fast. Rapidly calculating how much time we’d have left incognito, I figured it would be mere minutes at most before they were on top of us, but it could be a matter of seconds. I started planning what action I would take should the dogs lock in on our position. Unfortunately, the outcome for the dogs wouldn’t be good. I am a dog lover and hate the thought of harming one – or any animal, for that matter. However, if I came under threat, I would do whatever it took to secure the safety of not only myself, but my team member and anyone else around me. On this operation I was armed with an Austrian .223 Steyr AUG rifle, a fantastic weapon with a bullpup-style design, and one of the most recognisable rifles in the world at the time. My Steyr gave me a number of options when firing, as I could move the safety catch from semi-automatic and change it to a three-shot burst. I was also carrying my 9 millimetre pistol. My only other options were to spray the dog with tear gas or try my luck with wrestling. I wouldn’t be considering either of those options, for obvious reasons.

In my sixteen years as a tactical member of the SOG I was confronted by numerous situations involving dangerous dogs. Some were humorous (usually after the fact, admittedly), while others were much more serious. It was not unusual to receive a briefing warning us that the target address had vicious guard dogs that were trained to cause injury, or that the premises would contain a number of dogs, ‘demeanour unknown’.

In October 1994, we did reconnaissance at a property near Dunolly in central Victoria. The job was in preparation for a staged drug deal involving an offender who had prior convictions for drugs and conspiracy to commit murder. He was also paranoid, and had been known to step out onto his front porch and randomly fire weapons when he heard a noise. The night of our mission was extremely still and quiet, but fortunately it was dark enough that night-vision goggles were required. Along with a new member of the SOG, I approached the house from an adjacent property that was heavily treed, which provided ample cover. Our job was to find a position on the border of the target property and provide cover for the team who would approach from the front.

The front yard was approximately two acres and had been cleared of all vegetation except for some larger trees. Fortunately, there were a number of depressions and undulations the officers could hide in. Some distance away were other members who had night-vision sights on their weapons. They were continually feeding information to us and the forward assault team about any movement at the residence. While lying in a prone position, it was near impossible to hear my heart beating above the buzz of the mosquitoes that were sawing through every available piece of exposed skin on my body.

On completion of the forward assault team’s recon, they departed the same way they had approached. My partner and I were then advised to enter the target property and exit the same way the recon team had, to prevent any noise echoing through the neighbouring property. When we were in the middle of the target property, approximately 15 metres from the front door, two dogs began barking. We immediately went to ground in a small depression. Almost in the same moment, the agitated owner appeared at the front door and immediately began firing a rifle in our direction. At the same time, two large dogs bounded past us, barely two metres away. They must have heard a noise or latched onto a scent – thank God it wasn’t ours!

The SOG officers who were still observing the offender did not believe he had acquired us as targets. He was seen to be struggling with his weapon as he kept trying to fire it into the darkness. A number of times his gun jammed, or had what’s commonly referred to as a ‘stoppage’. Growing increasingly frustrated, he tried to rectify the stoppages with a torch, while calling for his dogs to return. The dogs reappeared from behind a tree and were heading in our direction, their eyes glowing green in my night-vision goggles. As they passed us they were growling, staring directly at us and fully aware we were there. My hand was on my 9 millimetre pistol and I was ready to defend myself, but for some reason they failed to act and simply continued back to their owner on the porch, who locked them back inside the house.

Over the next 30 minutes the offender continued searching the property, secreting himself behind trees hoping to hear or see something or someone. Slowly, we made our way off the property and logged another successful operation. We were not compromised, no one was hurt, the dogs were unharmed, and the owner was none the wiser.

Every operation is different, and sometimes you just have to improvise. In April 2000, we were assisting a local Criminal Investigation Unit (CIU) on a large cannabis plantation. Our task was to help the technical unit (the ones who plant listening devices and bugs) gain entry to a large shed, provide them security and help a botanist gather evidence prior to the subsequent arrest of the growers. The property was semi-rural, with the large shed located at the rear, approximately 40 metres away from the main residence. On the first night, we approached the shed and found it had only one access door, which was located behind a small wire-fenced compound housing a very nasty-looking German shepherd with a loud bark. As we drew near, the dog began to bark, and the resident came down immediately to inspect the area. Once satisfied that everything was in order, they headed back to the house and returned to bed. We waited twenty minutes then approached again. Naturally, the dog barked, the lights in the house came on, and the occupant did another sweep. We repeated this exercise five times that night, and while the dog gradually reduced its levels of aggression, it remained alert and unhappy with our presence.

The following night we returned, but this time I brought a secret weapon: dog biscuits! Surprisingly, on my first approach there was limited barking, although he was a little agitated – until I produced the first biscuit, which he consumed with haste. I crept a little closer and produced another, which he gladly took. By the third biscuit, I was standing right beside the compound, scratching his neck through the cyclone fencing. At that point, I felt it was time to commit to our budding friendship. Taking a massive risk, I climbed over the fence into the compound and immediately gave the dog another biscuit. Just like that, we became best friends.

I told the rest of the team to approach and kept feeding my new buddy biscuits. The investigators were able to climb the fence and gain access to the shed while my friend and I wrestled on the ground. The dog went from being a vicious guard dog to a cuddly and affectionate pooch within minutes – but now it was causing other issues. He was enjoying the affection I was giving him so much, he began playfully moaning and groaning. Everyone was telling me to keep him quiet, and I was starting to run out of biscuits.

Successful entry was made into the shed, evidence was gathered, the door relocked and we were on our way. I was the last back over the fence, handing over my final biscuit on my way out. I peered back into those beautiful dark eyes, and he didn’t bark even once as we all disappeared into the dark. If I could, I would have taken him home. The following night we conducted the arrest phase of the operation, and I insisted that I look after the entry point into the shed. I loaded up with more biscuits, the raid was conducted, the arrest was made and there wasn’t a single member of the team who didn’t pat that dog.

Back to the incident in 1995, and the hunt continued. ‘Where are they, boys? Sick ’em!’ The man knew something was amiss on his property. I moved my rifle to a ready position in case the dogs locked in on my position and attacked. It never ceased to amaze me the places I’d end up in and the tasks I’d be assigned on any given day. Earlier that afternoon I’d been enjoying a supposed ‘weekend off’ with the family. I wasn’t technically ‘on-call’, which meant I would only get a call in the event the Active Duty Team required more members for a big operation or critical incident. Initially, I was called in to help execute a search warrant on the headquarters of the infamous Outlaws Motorcycle Club, but not long after being briefed for that job, another, more urgent call came in.

That job was in Gembrook, and it was a domestic situation. The details were extremely light-on, which is not uncommon in these situations, but we were told a heavily armed and aggressive offender, who had access to some very high-powered rifles, had taken a hostage and was holed up inside a house.

As we gathered our equipment, news continued to filter through from a smaller assault team who were already at the site. According to that team, the hostage – a female – had since managed to escape the house, and had been whisked away to safety by police.

Despite her escape, our job was far from done. We now had to ensure the safety of the wider community and defuse what was clearly a highly volatile situation – one that had all the hallmarks of escalating even further. With the hostage now safe and out of the picture, and things not going to plan for the offender, the chances of him becoming even more irrational and aggravated had increased significantly. If we just upped and left the scene, he might leave the premises and take another hostage or multiple hostages, or go on a shooting rampage. There was also the possibility that he might cause a major event down the track. It was clear he had unresolved issues, so we had to make sure we resolved them one way or another. Besides, he had committed a crime and needed to pay the price. You can’t just hold someone against their will, threaten them and then expect everything to go back to normal.

The benefit of having the hostage in our care was that we could then garner more information from her about the offender and the property. In this line of work, there is no such thing as too much information. Details that an everyday civilian might consider inconsequential could mean the difference between life or death for us – or the offender.

The hostage was asked questions like:

Is there anyone else inside the house?

Does he have a history of mental health issues or any other issues we should know about?

What’s the floorplan of the house?

Do you believe he will act on any of his threats to harm someone?

What kind of firearms and weapons does he have access to?

Any useful information is passed on to the negotiators, who use it to de-escalate critical situations. Other key intel is also given to the SOG assault teams to help them form their various plans of attack.

In this instance, one piece of information caused more concern for us than any others: that the offender was an experienced deer hunter and had, among other weapons, a 300 Winchester Magnum Rifle with a telescopic sight in his arsenal. This made me particularly nervous because I knew just how powerful a gun like that was. Made primarily for hunting and used worldwide for mid- to large-sized big game such as moose, elk, bighorn sheep and deer, the rifle packs some serious punch – enough to take down an animal weighing more than 700 kilograms. Military and law enforcement agencies mainly use it as a long-range sniper round. In short, it’s a seriously powerful weapon, and its rounds can easily punch through the trunk of a tree – which was deeply concerning to me, as I’d chosen one to hide behind. Upon hearing what type of weapon I could be up against, I started eying off some larger trees.

Negotiations with the offender had begun, but they’d gotten off to a shaky start. This bloke was extremely abusive – likely alcohol or drug affected – and continually disengaged with those on the other end of the line. He was making numerous and constant threats, ordering us to all leave the area or he’d ‘come hunting’ for us. Some of the SOG members near the front of the house managed to lay eyes on him and confirmed he had a rifle slung across his body, which they described as a ‘hunting rifle’ of some kind. They also said he had his right hand around the trigger guard.

The negotiators were trying to establish a connection with the man, but to no avail. When that happens, we have to reconsider our next move, which usually boils down to either waiting it out or going in and forcing a confrontation. But just as the officers in charge at the command post re-convened, a call came over the radio: ‘The offender has vacated the premises to the rear of the property and is on foot, heading in a southerly direction along a man-made track.’

My partner and I were positioned further down that track and we saw the man strolling along it, looking attentively from side to side, trying to spot any trespassers. Before long, he was only 15 to 20 metres away from us and we had little chance of staying hidden, especially given his dogs had now picked up our scent. It was clear we needed to pull off an interception, which meant a confrontation. It was not going to be pretty.

Unknowingly, the offender stopped right in front of us. He was standing between two trees, scanning the area around him while his dogs were scouring the surrounding bushland. Thankfully, they must have picked up the scent of a rabbit or kangaroo because they’d run off in the wrong direction and hadn’t zeroed in on us. The tension in the air was palpable; it was only a matter of time before he spotted one of us. I was surprised he hadn’t seen us yet – deep down, I was proud of our camouflage, as it was something we’d done a lot of training on. I slowed my heart rate and kept as still as possible with my head tilted down, but still raised enough for me to keep a visual on him.

Suddenly, our cover was blown. My eyes locked in on the offender’s, and it took a split second for him to understand what and who he was looking at. Before the realisation had dawned on him, I was on one knee with my rifle raised, ready to yell: ‘Police, don’t move!’ But I only got as far as ‘Police’ before he raised his weapon at me.

This is where the true nature of a person is revealed – it’s the fight or flight response, where the mind takes full control of the body and instinctively reacts to a dangerous situation, rendering all conscious thoughts, and your ability to apply reason, useless. Most people would panic if confronted by a heavily armed man, dressed in black, screaming at them not to move. Most people would immediately drop to the ground with their hands up in surrender and start begging for mercy – but not this bloke. Instead, he raised his rifle and aimed it directly at me. I immediately fired at him four times on the three-shot burst function, releasing twelve rounds in total. At the same time, I moved to my left, ensuring I would be well clear of his return fire.

The argument that police officers should wait until they are fired upon before firing is nonsense. You cannot afford to take that risk. If someone raises their weapon at you, you must assume they’re willing to use it with the intention of inflicting maximum harm. By waiting, you’re simply tempting fate – those who wait are unlikely to see another day. Unlike in the movies, no one has a quick enough reaction time to dodge a bullet; there’s no chance you can get out of the way. If they pull that trigger and they can aim, you’re dead.

As I fired my rounds and darted sideways, I tracked the offender while letting off more bursts of gunfire and saw that he took cover behind a large tree. Bark and tree fragments exploded off the trunk and branches flew into the air. There was gunfire all around me. I assumed my partner was also firing, but at that moment, I had no idea if anyone, including me, had been shot. As I manoeuvred to my left to flank the offender and get a better vantage point on him, I heard three to four more shots ring out. A few seconds later, I was able to observe the man, who was now hiding behind a tree and kneeling in a shallow ditch.

I watched him drop his rifle and raise his hands. I immediately shouted, ‘Don’t shoot!’ and ‘Police, don’t move!’. The former command was directed at my partner, while the latter was aimed at the offender. But both could have applied to the offender, I suppose. I repeated the caution, ‘Police, don’t move!’ on several occasions and then advised my partner that I had the offender in my sights and was covering him. The offender looked extremely shady; I didn’t trust him for a second. As I edged closer to his position, I noticed that he kept glancing at his rifle. If I could read his thoughts, I’d bet he was pondering whether to reach for his firearm and unload on me. In that scenario, he wouldn’t have lasted a second. One move towards his rifle and I would have neutralised him in an instant.

My partner approached from the other side of the offender, with his firearm also pointed directly at him. From the moment the offender first pointed his weapon at me to the time we moved in on him would have been less than ten seconds. It’s incredible how time slows downs in those chaotic moments. What feels like minutes are mere seconds in reality.

As my partner moved around and stood next to me, the offender became increasingly twitchy. I could see he was fighting an internal battle as he debated whether to act or surrender. It made for a tense stand-off, and my tone became less demanding and more cautionary. While I kept cautioning ‘Police, don’t move!’ I was thinking, Don’t you dare go for that fucking gun or we’ll end you. Eventually, I ordered the offender to his feet: ‘Get up and move away from the rifle.’ He slowly stood, but refused to move. My partner edged closer. ‘Move away from the rifle!’ I ordered again. He stared at me, but again refused to move. We played out that same scenario several more times; me barking orders and the offender ignoring me each time.

My partner grabbed a tear gas canister from the pocket of his vest and looked to me for approval to deploy it. I gave him a subtle nod, and a jet of white spray fired out from the canister and into the face of the offender. He yelled out and immediately put his hands to his face to prevent any more of the painful substance entering his eyes. As he stumbled and furiously wiped his face and eyes, I continued to yell out for him to surrender. He was now extremely wobbly on his feet, and I saw an opportunity to move in. I lunged forward, using my momentum to extend my leg and kick him in the chest. At the same time, just as we’d trained, my partner crouched down and sideswept his legs, causing the offender to crash to the ground with an almighty thud. He quickly got back onto his hands and knees, but we were on him in a flash. It wasn’t an easy take-down, however, as he continued to resist arrest. I forced his head to the ground as he thrashed and raged against my attempts to subdue him. After an extended struggle, he started to tire and I could sense we were finally winning the battle. I was able to twist his arms behind his back and secure some restraints to his wrists.

At this stage, we still hadn’t had a chance to check him for bullet wounds or other injuries, as our sole focus had been on negating the threat and ensuring he posed no further risk to our safety. We hadn’t had a chance to check ourselves or each other for any wounds, either. When the adrenaline is pumping hard around your body and you’re engaged in an intense life or death situation, you could take a bullet or get stabbed and not even feel it.

At that point, I remembered the hunting dogs and quickly looked around to see if they were in the vicinity. Luckily for the dogs, they must have scampered off when the shooting started – I couldn’t see them anywhere.

We asked the offender if he was hurt and for his name. We gave him a quick check and couldn’t find any bullet entry or exit wounds, but radioed for an ambulance regardless. Upon seeing that he was unharmed, two conflicting thoughts immediately entered my mind:

One: I was glad he was okay.

Two: I was pissed off that I’d failed to hit him.

Looking around at the scene, I saw we’d definitely made a mess of the trees. Our shots had produced a uniformed grove through the tree he’d sought cover behind – he was a lucky man. Many other trees had had the bark torn off them and holes punched in their trunks. We’d reacted so swiftly, the offender hadn’t managed to get a shot off, despite being a step ahead of us in raising his weapon and deciding to engage. Still, it was one of the closest times I ever came to being shot.

9

GOOD COP, BAD COP

While the SOG came under scrutiny on many occasions as a result of a shooting or heavy-handed arrest, I can honestly say that I was only in the spotlight for my tactics, decisions or involvement on a handful of jobs – and each complaint had come from someone I’d arrested, shot or injured during their apprehension. In other words, it’s safe to say you could take a lot of what they said with a grain of salt.

Internally, it was a different story. I’d be lying if I said I was an angel in the eyes of my superiors throughout my 34-year career. I think most police officers would have been in some kind of trouble along the way. For me, it was the odd slap on the wrist for minor indiscretions, failing to obey instructions or simply being a clown, and picking the wrong moment to fool around. In many of these instances, I was called out for using my initiative, which happened to contradict an order, even though I maintain that my decisions at the time were justified. It wasn’t uncommon for criminals to make allegations against police, because doing so would often delay a court proceeding or create a distraction from any charges they may have been facing.

One year I was recovering from a complete anterior cruciate rupture and had two screws placed in my knee joint. I had gingerly returned to work, but was placed on ‘light duties’, which meant I was unable to train or do any operational tasks. The SOG was already low on resources when a job came in one afternoon for a drug deal in Lygon Street, Carlton and it was all hands on deck. We were short one driver for the covert van so I volunteered, knowing my offer would be hard to turn down because we were shorthanded at the time. Our inspector agreed that I could drive the van, but under no circumstances was I to get out. This made perfect sense to me at the time, as I was still limping heavily.

The team I was in waited patiently around the corner for the offenders to arrive with the drugs. The surveillance team informed us when they entered the store, and when the deal was occurring, which all went down at the rear and involved undercover police operatives.

With a dry mouth and my heart racing, I drove the van to the rear of the store so the members inside could make the arrests. Unbeknown to us at the time, the main target of the operation had slipped away through the front exit. I pulled up at the drop-off point and the members spilled out of the van and entered the shop to arrest the offenders, when a surveillance team member knocked on my window. He was pointing down the road towards the front of the shop. ‘See that bloke walking away? He’s the main target!’

Without hesitation, I got out of the van and attempted to run, forgetting it was beyond my capabilities. With all the other team members occupied and in the throes of making various arrests, I knew I was on my own and had to continue the chase – albeit slowly. As I hobbled after the kingpin, I couldn’t help imagining how appropriate some Benny Hill music would have been at the time.

I used my radio to call for help from members of the arrest team, but my request was refused as they still had their hands full. An older man, it was clear that the offender I was pursuing was also incapable of running. After 700 metres, I finally caught up to him and made the arrest as he pleaded his innocence,. ‘You must be mistaken, you have the wrong man!’

After handing him over to the detectives, I limped back to the van, where everybody was waiting. The look on my inspector’s face was not what I’d expected; he was pissed.

‘Who’s been a naughty boy?’ one of the men asked.

‘Someone is in trouble,’ another sang out.

During the debrief back at the office, I was asked a pointed question by my inspector, who was still in a foul mood. ‘Operator 30. Tell me what it means when I tell you to stay in the van and not to get out under any circumstances?’

My response, ‘Was I told to stay in the van?’ was ill-advised, and didn’t help the situation. Although the boys found my clapback funny, the inspector didn’t appreciate the sarcasm, and I knew I’d made an error of judgement that would come back to bite me in the arse one way or another.

A week later I found myself in a similar situation when I was again asked to drive a van because we were short of men. Again, I was warned by the inspector: ‘You can drive the van, but you are to remain inside it at all times, do you understand?’

I replied, ‘Yes, sir – no problem. You can trust me this time, and thank you for the opportunity.’

Operation ILOA was an operation run by the Drug Squad and involved forced entry into a house in Grace Avenue, Dandenong. A group of specialist undercover officers would purchase a large quantity of drugs, and once the deal was completed, members of the SOG would storm in, arrest everyone involved and prevent the destruction of the drugs and any other evidence.

Here we go again. I drove the van into the street and stopped one house short of the target address so the arrest team could silently exit the van and head up the neighbouring driveway. I sat patiently in the driver’s seat, annoyed that I couldn’t be a part of the entry team, as my knee was still a few months away from being fully rehabilitated.

I could see the team lined up at the entrance, poised to swing a sledgehammer through the door. Whack! I heard the loud crack of the steel against the timber as the door was smashed in. Awaiting further instructions, I noticed movement in the yard and made out a lone figure jumping over a side fence and onto the neighbour’s driveway. Fuck, here we go again, I thought to myself. I’m really gonna be in the shit this time!

As I opened the van door and jumped out, I looked down the road and saw my inspector watching on from a distance through the windscreen of his car. I could only imagine what he was saying as I shuffled up the driveway and gave chase with my handgun drawn.

I turned the corner and came to a stop at an extremely high fence that would have been difficult for anyone to climb, let alone me. I saw a small alcove beside the garage with a heap of cardboard boxes and rubbish all piled up, and it dawned on me that the escapee was likely hiding among the pile. On closer inspection, I made out a foot protruding from under the junk and called for the man to come out with his hands up. Another job, and another arrest by me of the main target.

I was joined by other members who helped secure the offender, then I began my long walk back down the driveway towards my waiting inspector. ‘We’ll discuss this one when we get back to the office!’ he boomed. Behind him, my team members were making faces and pointing at me, sniggering in delight.

Although I avoided a bollocksing, a new unconditional rule was brought in after that night stipulating that anyone on light duties would be banned from taking part in any operations. No exceptions would be considered.

Some people make good decisions and others make bad decisions that cost them their life. Two criminals, Paul Skews and Stephen Crome, fit into the latter category.

The early 1990s was a difficult period for Victoria Police and the SOG, as there had been 25 people shot dead by police over an eight-year period. As a result, we came under increased scrutiny, with the mainstream media always quick to side with the criminals, not us – anything for a headline!

This particular job had been running for a number of weeks and was headed up by members of the Armed Robbery Squad. Detectives had been told that Skews and an unknown accomplice would be committing an armed robbery in Springvale on a particular date, although the target address was not known. The SOG was called in to assist in the apprehension of the two offenders in the event a crime was committed. I was deployed in a covert van while other members remained in the surrounding area, waiting for the action to begin. Skews, 35, was considered an ‘erratic career criminal’ and was on bail at the time. He was joined by another man, eighteen-year-old Crome. They were observed leaving a vehicle and were approaching an industrial area.

We’d positioned our van in a location that enabled us to intervene, and my heart rate increased as the suspects drew near. Just as it appeared the job would go ahead, the duo got spooked and left the area.

Days later, detectives determined the pair was going to attempt an armed robbery on a real estate agency in Dingley, but again, they were unsure of the address. I was placed in a vehicle to support the arrest team members who were in the covert van. My job was to prevent the offenders from leaving the area if they managed to escape arrest.

New information came in, confirming that Skews and Crome were targeting a real estate agency in Hampton Park and would hit it at precisely 1.30 pm. All our teams headed to that location, with one arriving earlier to evacuate the staff and get them to safety. We were warned that Skews would do anything to avoid going back to jail, and to treat him with extreme caution. Armed robbery squad detectives said in a report: ‘Skews has an extreme propensity for violence. An informer has stated that Skews will not go back to jail and he will shoot it out if confronted by police. Information received and surveillance has confirmed that Skews is a heavy drug user and is irrational in his behaviour.’

The covert arrest team was positioned outside the real estate agency and were told to prevent the would-be offenders from entering the premises. In an operational briefing paper, detectives wrote that the aim was, ‘to detect Skews and the other unknown offender prior to them committing an armed robbery and arrest them with a view to charging them with conspiracy to commit armed robbery’.

Skews and Crome were watched by surveillance teams as they drove a stolen vehicle around the vicinity of the estate agency. They circled it three times before parking out the front with the engine still running.

They got out of the car and made their way along the footpath, which was flanked by a timber paling fence. As the pair neared the door of the office, the arrest team exploded out of the covert van and pounced, while shouting, ‘Police! Don’t move!’ repeatedly. Skews raised a loaded, sawn-off shotgun at the officer closest to him while Crome immediately reached into the bag he was carrying. All four members of the arrest team reacted instinctively and came to the same conclusion: shoot or be shot. Seventeen shots were fired by the SOG, and the balaclava-clad offenders were killed on the spot.

I was on the scene within seconds of the shooting and was directed to guard the crime scene until investigators arrived. The colour photograph shown in the paper the next day wasn’t a pretty sight – seventeen SG cartridges had been fired, each containing nine individual pellets or rounds. That meant a total of 153 lead shots, each the size of a .38 bullet.

As expected, the SOG was heavily criticised for the shooting, and questions about our tactics and actions were raised in the media. One SOG officer was required to do a demonstration for the coroner to show the speed at which he could fire a Remington 870P pump-action shotgun. For the record, it was seven rounds in just 1.5 seconds.

At the conclusion of the inquest, State Coroner Graeme Johnstone found that the SOG members were justified in shooting Skews and Crome. Mr Johnstone’s report concluded that Skews and Crome contributed to their own deaths, and to each other’s, by attempting the armed robbery. He said, ‘The shooting by the members of the Victorian Special Operations Group was lawful and justified in that all members fired after being put in reasonable fear that their own lives were at risk by Skews and Crome. The fact that Crome was later discovered not to be armed, does not, of itself, alter the view of the police response at the moment of the shooting.’

To demonstrate just how amateur Skews and Crome were, if they had successfully pulled off the job, they would have made just $25, to split between the two of them. If they had done their research properly, perhaps they wouldn’t have bothered.

We all make poor choices sometimes, and while I never made any that endangered my life, or the lives of others, I was prone to getting myself into hot water on a job. I wasn’t immune to a sudden loss of maturity, and enjoyed a good laugh with the boys from time to time, even in the most inappropriate of circumstances. It was all part of coping with the grim shit we had to deal with on a daily basis. My most common prank was to pour water on the groin of any member that fell asleep on a job – this was a moment of unacceptable vulnerability and could not be tolerated – not to say that I didn’t receive the same treatment on one occasion!

I’d had a Harley-Davidson for about a year when I received a call-out to a Nunawading address at 3 am for a hostage/siege situation. With my uniform in one saddle bag and my gun and belt in the other, I started up the bike and probably woke up half the street as the sports pipes let out a deep, deafening, throaty rumble.

The previous day we’d had a number of interstate tactical officers training with us, and that evening some of the men had taken them out to the local bars. They were still drinking when a few misguided members invited them to the siege, saying they could observe the operation from the command post.

I arrived a few hours after the siege had begun. As I rumbled through the last cordon on my chopper, I thought it would be funny to turn the ignition off and then back on again, igniting the unburnt fuel in the exhaust system. Also known as a ‘backfire’, the deafening ‘pop’ made the uniformed members jump with fright – to my great satisfaction.

The siege was dragging on, and we eventually deployed tear gas to bring it to an end. The offender surrendered and no one was harmed. Generally, after such an early morning operation, we were told to go home and get some sleep. To our surprise, on this occasion, our inspector ordered us to return to the office for an immediate debriefing. The debrief finished with the inspector unleashing hell on us.

‘The next time someone brings drunken coppers to a siege it will be the last thing they do!’ he yelled, steam practically coming out of his ears. ‘And when you deploy tear gas, maybe check the direction of the fucking wind so it doesn’t gas everyone at the command post!’ He wasn’t done. The last spray was for me.

‘If you ever backfire that fucking Harley again, I’ll personally see to it that an unroadworthy is placed on it and it ends up in a fucking scrap heap!’ With that, he stormed out of the room.

The only thing I could say after he left the room was, ‘Well done guys. We got a hat-trick!’ Everyone in the room burst into laughter.

To survive in our line of work, you have to take the opportunity to laugh – at the appropriate time, of course. Some people refer to police humour as ‘dark humour’, but it’s our way of coping with the terrible things we see and the evil we encounter.

It had been a good weekend, and it was about to end on a high with Sunday night fish and chips (a family tradition) and TV on the couch. But just as I was about to do the dishes, the phone rang. There was a man with a rifle sitting out the front of a set of units in Waterloo Crescent, St Kilda.

When I arrived on the scene I received information about the man, who’d been seen dressed in white overalls, holding a rifle. He was now believed to be holed up in Unit 1. Negotiations had started, but there was no response from the man inside. After negotiators had been trying to establish communication with him for some time, locals came forward and advised us to get an interpreter, explaining that the man was an immigrant who spoke little English. The interpreter arrived promptly, but still had no success. Soon, impatient residents began defying our orders to stay inside and started fleeing the scene, putting themselves in harm’s way.

With a messy situation unfolding, we were given the green light to make a forced entry and arrest the gunman. After a quick reconnaissance of the block of flats, it was decided that the fastest way in would be through the front window, which was very small. That meant all eyes turned to little old me – the smallest man in the group – to go through first. The plan was for me and another member to enter through the window, while another team would create a distraction at the adjacent kitchen window to confuse the suspect.

Positioned under the windowsill, I looked across at my colleague and gave him the signal to smash the window out. On the count of three, he used a metal object to obliterate the glass and reamed out all the sharp edges, allowing me to launch myself through the frame headfirst. I crashed through the blinds – I’m sure I would have received a diving score of at least eight out of ten due to the difficulty of the attempt, but for the landing, which would have seen points deducted. I completed an unintentional tactical roll across the floor only to hear a loud squeal – I had inadvertently landed on and destroyed a glass coffee table which had a record turntable underneath it.

I looked up at a man who was sitting on a couch, staring at me in horror, and immediately realised he was not the person we were looking for. Before I could say anything, I heard another loud crash and a thud, as my partner launched himself through the window and followed me into the room. No sooner had he arrived than he was up and out the front door, having realised that he, too, was in wrong place.

That left me with a hysterical middle-aged man trying to figure out why a heavily armed SOG member was lying on the floor of his lounge room. In the background I could hear an almighty commotion as the back-up unit made its forced entry at the correct address and apprehended the man with the rifle.

In our debrief, which was super embarrassing, we discovered that the entry to Unit 1 was hidden in an alcove.

After much explaining, consoling and the attendance of some higher ranked officers, who appeased the disgruntled resident in Unit 2 with a sizeable reimbursement for all the damage caused, the matter was resolved.

10

THE BOMB SQUAD

I sounded like Darth Vader out of Star Wars as each breath echoed inside my bomb suit. The outside world was completely blocked out, and all I could do was focus on the task at hand: a suspicious package that had been left at a bus stop by an unknown person and discovered by someone waiting to catch the bus that morning. With only a protective bomb suit between me and a possible explosion, I was struggling to contain my nerves. This was the first time I had been tasked with manually defusing a bomb, and in some weird way, it was something I’d hoped would never happen.

I had been a tactical operator in the SOG for a year when in 1991 I was offered the opportunity to become a bomb technician. Keen to try anything new, and already an adrenaline junkie, the chance to work with explosives was too exciting to pass up. While most people would run a mile from a job like that, I threw myself into it headfirst. With so few people in the country regarded as experts in explosives, I felt I could really apply myself and become a true asset to the police force. I’d have the opportunity to save hundreds, if not thousands of lives by being able to defuse bombs and other explosive devices.

Getting a qualification as a bomb technician was quite rudimentary in the late 1980s and early 1990s, but as technology advanced, our training had to evolve. Initially the bomb technician’s course involved an intensive four weeks of training in Bandiana, a town on the border of Victoria and New South Wales. The opportunity to complete the course was offered to specific specialist police officers in all states and territories, with two tactical members able to attend from each jurisdiction. The instructors were from all around Australia, and included support from the Australian Defence Force (ADF), as its facilities and equipment were used.

When it came to making a mistake on the course there was a zero-tolerance policy, which was very fitting, when you consider the consequences of messing up while working with a bomb. For example, prior to joining the course we had to practise with a specific type of robot – an Echidna MK 1 explosive ordnance demolition robot. We were required to operate it on the very first day, and failure at that task meant an immediate dismissal. At that stage, no Victorian representative had ever been sent packing, so the pressure was well and truly on. One stuff-up could also mean my removal from the SOG.

Our skills with the Echidna were tested thoroughly, from controlling its movement, to attaching appropriate equipment to it, using weapons with it and defusing bombs. We had two exams each week, tested various bomb response equipment and had to problem-solve at least two scenarios daily, which each took up to five hours to complete. A lot of time was spent on the range learning the correct and safe use of explosives and primary explosives, including gelignite, which is extremely sensitive to heat, shock and friction. One mistake would mean severe consequences.

From the completion of the course until 2021, I was a qualified bomb technician. I completed dozens of courses and went on study tours to Sacramento, the FBI in Washington, South Africa, and Scotland Yard in the United Kingdom. I attended conferences in Israel and trained with Europol members in Spain. I learnt about and became an expert in all areas of bomb disposal, including international bombing trends, conventional explosives, physical properties of explosives, range safety, explosive shot-firing, X-ray theory, radiography interpretation, electronics, improvised explosive devices, switching and triggering methods, postal devices, explosive entry techniques, hand entry techniques, cryogenic freezing techniques, improvised incendiary and explosive mixtures, building and vehicle searching and response to a bomb threat.

While there was always a capability within the SOG to deal with explosives, suspect packages and rig explosives for forced entries and the like, the Bomb Squad itself only received its own identity in 2003, after the Bali bombings and following the rise of both threats of terrorism and actual acts of terrorism. As for the name, the bomb squad was renamed the Bomb Response Unit, also known as the BRU, and became a sub-division of the SOG.

The BRU operates under the simple motto ‘Every Metre Matters’, which serves as a stark reminder that the closer you are to a bomb, the more chance you have of dying. So, if there was ever an opportunity to perform a task from afar, we’d always take that option. One metre can be the difference between life or death, and that was a reality we faced most days. While bomb robots made it safer, on my first manual approach I didn’t have one at my disposal, because on that occasion, its batteries were depleted – even though we’d just charged them!

When I joined the Bomb Squad, we had just one robot, called ‘Eric’. Eric was an Australian-designed robot that would break down all the time. It was coming to the end of its life, and we desperately needed an upgrade. Eric was also cable-controlled, not remote-controlled, which made things even more difficult. We always had to hope we’d have enough cable to get him to the package or device, and we only had about 200 metres of cable to play with.

Whenever I looked at a bomb, I had to try and reverse-engineer it to work out how it had been made so I could deconstruct it with no risk to life or property. Defusing a bomb is something that should never be rushed. How hard it is to make safe often depends on the intelligence of the person who put it together. The best tools we have are an X-ray machine, and bomb robots fitted with cameras that can go in and handle the dangerous items for us.

In order to interpret an X-ray of a device, you have to know how bombs are constructed to determine whether the person who made it did so correctly. Did they have access to detonators or know how to make one? Do they have an initiator to make the explosive go off? Back when I started in the Bomb Squad, a device wasn’t a bomb until we said it was a bomb. These days, it’s the opposite: everything is a bomb until we say it’s not – which is a much safer approach.

With Eric out of action on my first real-life bomb task, I used binoculars to get a better look at the device in the bus shelter, but it was hard to identify any individual components. My sergeant at the time suggested we ask the media to zoom in on one of their cameras, giving us a close-up of the device. This paid dividends. Using the expertise of a news camera operator, we were able to zoom in super close and identify intricate details on the device that would help me defuse it. I could see that the device appeared to be a car radio speaker with several wires coming out of it. It was sitting about a metre off the ground, presumably attached to the steel frame of the bus shelter with magnets.

My sergeant, who was supervising me on my first job, asked me to talk him through my thoughts. I told him I would need to do a manual approach and get an X-ray of the device. If it was a live bomb, I’d place a disruptor next to it. A disruptor fires a water charge that disperses before the device can complete an electrical circuit and explode. The water hits the mechanism that’s going to make it fire, like an arming switch or the firing switch – we target a specific location to immobilise the bomb. That’s the principle of the disruptor, and the preferred method if we have enough space and time. As long as we don’t touch the device or get too close, we know we’re safe. Sometimes we put a big wall of sandbags around the bomb, put our disruptor in place, put a roof on top and blow the bomb up. Sandbags can often contain an explosion, depending on the size of the device.

The bomb suit was laid out on the ground in the order I needed to put it on, and the extra equipment I had to take in was readied and operationally checked. I removed any sharp items from my overalls, then stepped into the bomb-suit pants and placed protective boots over my GP boots. An extra groin protection layer was velcroed to the pants, and I placed a balaclava over my head to help absorb any perspiration that might drip into my eyes and hinder my vision.

The helmet was then placed on my head and tightened to the point of being uncomfortable; it weighs 9 kilograms, and has to be secured tight to stop it from moving around. Next, I put on latex gloves to prevent contamination from any of the suspicious items that I might have to handle. I bent my arms to the rear and slid them into the sleeves of the jacket as other BRU members began to tighten the velcro tabs to ensure everything was fastened and in the right place.

A heavy ballistic plate was positioned across my chest and once that was in place, a member grabbed my hands and directed them to the quick release tabs – these allow the suit’s occupant to get out in less than twenty seconds, should the need arise. These suits are designed to protect BRU members from a blast, heat and flame, but at the end of the day, it all comes down to the size of the bomb and your proximity and positioning when it explodes.

My colleagues connected a blower unit cable, which would circulate cool air through the suit and prevent my visor from fogging up. Additional tools were attached to the outside of the suit, including a reel of ever-reliable gaffer tape. My visor was lowered, checked and locked into place, and the large collar on the suit was pulled across and velcroed to the bottom of my helmet. This was designed to stop any overpressure from a blast getting in under the helmet.

I was incredibly nervous as I neared the device. Instinctively, I clenched my fists and retracted my hands into the sleeves of the jacket, as if to protect my exposed fingers from an unexpected blast. While I didn’t know it at the time, I’ve since learned this is a common occurrence with bomb technicians all around the world.

The device was stuck to the wall of the bus shelter; I needed to bring it down to ground level to be able to X-ray it. I connected a nylon cord to the device and positioned myself 100 metres away. This is called a ‘hook and line’ procedure, and is designed to bring suspicious packages out into the open so we can deal with them properly. I gave the cord a few sharp pulls and the device detached and, thankfully, failed to explode. I dragged it onto the road and walked back to the command post to fetch the X-ray device.

On my second approach, I could see that the device was made up of a car speaker, a small toy motor, some tissue paper, a large resistor and a solenoid (a type of electromagnet formed by a helical coil of wire) wrapped in tape, along with some wiring and black electrical tape. This was what we would call a hamburger with the lot.

My X-ray done, I returned to the command post to analyse the images. They revealed that, while the device was not a hoax and had all the components to make a large bomb, it had been put together incorrectly. There were no switches, but rather, a small wristwatch attached to the jumble of wires, and a detonator with no explosive content. Although a detonator alone has the capability of removing your hand if it’s not properly handled, this device was essentially disarmed. On my third approach, I carefully removed the detonator and placed it into an explosives box for the arson squad to collect.

Relieved, and with all my body parts intact, I celebrated my first manual approach and real bomb disposal. Our next job was to delve into the ongoing issues with Eric, and figure out a way to get an upgrade.

One rare time Eric didn’t let me down was during a spate of armed robberies on jewellery stores around Melbourne. After their smash and grab, one robber placed a device on the counter that had flashing lights all over it and told the staff, ‘Here’s a bomb for you!’. It looked like it also had gelignite, with wires going into it. The staff fled, and the surrounding area was evacuated.

In charge of the scene, I called the Army in to assist. I used Eric to unbolt the front door and enter the store. I suspected the device could be motion triggered or could have a timer on it, so I used Eric to grab it off the counter (better Eric than me), take it out the front and place it in the gutter. I then had the army use their robot to place a disruptor in the right spot and shoot and destroy it. While it turned out to be a hoax device, we couldn’t be too careful.

I’m often asked whether I felt safe in a bomb suit when I was working on or near a suspicious device. That question is perhaps best answered by describing a photo I was once given of a bomb technician from Indonesia, who was wearing a protective suit when the bomb he was working on exploded. The photo shows the aftermath – the bomb technician is spread all over the scene, his suit torn to shreds. So, no, I never felt completely safe, especially after seeing that photo. Depending on the device, a bomb suit won’t necessarily save your life, but it’ll keep all your pieces together – maybe.

The way movies depict how bombs are defused and what bomb technicians do is far from reality. When I think of Hollywood, I think of the main character agonising over whether to cut the blue wire or the red wire as a digital clock counts down. But honestly – and this should come as no surprise – that’s all Hollywood bullshit. In the real world, we deal with devices that have collapsing circuits, which means the bomb detonates if any wire in the circuit is cut. It works with the use of a magnetic switch that operates if any metallic item is passed over or near the bomb. You have to have a good understanding of what you’re dealing with, and that’s why we have many tools at our disposal. These days, thanks to the internet, anyone can make a bomb, and there are various types of components and switching devices, including light-sensitive switches and movement-sensitive switches. This stuff is not hard to get. I’ve dealt with offenders who got information off the internet and constructed bombs using the components from a string of Christmas lights.

It’s easy to get the parts for a bomb, you just need someone crazy and stupid enough to actually make one. I have seen plenty of people who have lost limbs, fingers and their lives making homemade bombs. Sometimes it’s criminals or terrorists, and sometimes it’s just some dickhead experimenting or showing off. Some people have a fascination with things that blow up and explode – that’s why we enjoy fireworks on New Year’s Eve, because they’re loud, exciting and dangerous. But when you start playing with bombs, you cross a line, and sooner or later, you’ll end up in a body bag – believe me.

In this day and age, if it was avoidable, we’d never walk up to a bomb to defuse it, but an exception would be made if someone was wearing a suicide vest or device. There was a famous case in Pennsylvania, USA where a pizza delivery driver, Brian Wells, was forced to rob a bank with an explosive collar locked around his neck. One of the timers hung down over Wells’s chest, and the device had several fake wires to confuse any bomb squad technician who might try to disarm it. This is an extremely complicated and worst-case situation. Sadly, the bomb went off and Wells was killed instantly, before the bomb squad even arrived. Even if the bomb technicians had made it on time, a team member would have had to approach Wells wearing a bomb suit, because a robot wouldn’t have been able to defuse an intricate bomb like that.

In the event that someone put a vest or device on their own body, we would order that person to take the device off, knowing they had constructed it. If they refused and approached the police with the device on, or tried to move into an uncontained area, they’d be shot and immobilised.

Just before midnight one day in November 1999 in Aspendale, 27 kilometres south-east of Melbourne’s CBD, a large explosion in the backyard of a house shook the foundations of neighbouring properties. A 24-year-old male had constructed four pipe bombs using a combination of various chemicals and powders. While one of the pipe bombs had exploded, the other three were still inside the shed in the backyard and could go off at any moment.

The young man had dug a small hole in the rear of the yard, placed a pipe in the ground and covered it with steel plates and a solid steel weight. He lit a fuse that caused the pipe to explode, projecting the steel weight high into the air and through the roof of his parents’ house. The house was two storeys, but the force and weight of the plate coming down caused it to smash through the roof tiles, plaster and floor, leaving it embedded in the lower floor between his mother and a guest, who were sitting in the lounge room watching television. A three-metre section of timber fence in the backyard was obliterated, the neighbour’s windows were shattered and the explosion was heard kilometres away.

On my arrival, I made sure the house and surrounding area were evacuated before turning my attention to the remaining bombs in the shed. Using specialised equipment, I defused the three pipe bombs and commenced a search of the premises. To my surprise, I located a number of books on bomb-making, several pipes and more than 215 kilograms of powders used to make explosives. The young man had enough explosive material to destroy the entire neighbourhood. What was also shocking was his parents’ response to their son’s behaviour. ‘He’s always just liked to experiment,’ they told me.

On an overcast day in September 1992, a family was enjoying a day out at the Kalorama Park Picnic Grounds, 35 kilometres east of Melbourne’s CBD. The youngest child stumbled across a jar full of liquid sitting on the ground and picked it up to take a closer look. As she held the jar up to see what was inside, the fluids inside mixed together and slushed around. She called out to her father, to show him what she’d found, and he immediately told her to ‘put the jar down and leave it alone’ which she did. The girl was approximately five metres away from the jar when it suddenly exploded sending shards of glass through the air and a fireball into the air. The flames from the explosion were reported to be approximately two metres high. Fortunately, the little girl wasn’t hurt – she was extremely lucky.

When I inspected the area, I noticed a familiar odour. When particular chemicals are mixed together, a dangerous reaction can occur. The ambient temperature of the fluids can also impact the speed at which this reaction takes place. Two similar jars were located nearby – one had already exploded, and the other had to be dealt with.

This shows how unpredictable these types of explosive devices can be. One exploded on the first day, when it was placed on the ground, and the second went off 24 hours later, when the young girl disturbed it, causing the chemicals to react. It also highlights the stupidity of some people, and the willingness to risk harming others just for a buzz or some sort of satisfaction.

Days later, three offenders were located by police and charged with various offences, including conduct endangerIng life, conduct endangering a person, and possession of an explosive device without lawful purpose.

It amazed me how often I was required to attend a scene that involved someone experimenting with explosives, and how many brushes with death people experienced as a result – particularly among those who made the devices. I attended dozens of jobs where backyard bomb makers nearly blew up their own children, having invited them to stand nearby while they detonated their device, presumably to show off.

I vividly remember one job where a man had made a device in his shed. He detonated it intentionally, resulting in him losing a number of fingers, while his young daughter watched on. Luckily, she was standing behind a vehicle, which saved her life. When I inspected the scene there were large pieces of bomb fragmentation embedded deep in the side of the vehicle, and blood splatter cast all around. I found his fingers dangling on the clothesline. I always wondered about the traumatic impact on that child, or any other child, for that matter, who witnessed those who should know better being irresponsible dickheads.

11

NEAR MISSES

In mid-April 1997, a bloke by the name of George Marcus was shot six times and killed in Box Hill North, a suburb about 15 kilometres east of Melbourne’s CBD. Years later, it was revealed that Marcus was a shady businessman, connected to Melbourne’s underworld. He was the alleged head of a massive counterfeiting ring. More than $16,650,000 in counterfeit cheques were found in his briefcase, each one supposedly worth between $30,000 and $250,000, and it was discovered he owed a massive amount of money to the tax office and the banks. On the night of his shooting, his partner told detectives she heard her dog yelp and went outside to see Marcus. The pair had a brief discussion, then she went to the garage as a series of shots rang out on the street. She found Marcus dead on the footpath.

The prevailing thought regarding the hit was that members of Melbourne’s gangland had discovered that Marcus was, in fact, an Australian Federal Police informant.

After an extended investigation by detectives, which involved more than 100 interviews and several persons of interest, they received information suggesting the murder weapon had been hidden in the roof of a house in Brunswick – unbeknown to the owners of the house. One of the alleged suspects was a friend of the owners and had a key to the house.

Warrants were quickly obtained, and it was decided a covert search should be conducted, with a view to gathering further evidence if possible. It had been suggested that the bag with the murder weapon could be booby trapped, or contain explosives, so a request was made for the expertise of bomb technicians, and that’s how I became involved.

On our arrival at the rendezvous point (RV), it was decided two members would gain entry into the premises, locate the bag and return it to the RV, where I would carefully open it. The owners of the house had gone out and were currently under observation, so we knew we had the place to ourselves for a good period of time. While the occupants of this address were not considered dangerous, it’s always an adrenaline rush when you’re tasked with entering someone’s house, especially when you know they could return at any moment.

Successful entry was made, and a green garbage bag was located in a roof cavity, which was brought to me for opening. I found nineteen cartridges of Magnum Powergel explosives – something unexpected, and very concerning, particularly in such a large quantity. I was directed to return to the house and search the roof for more items. I made my way into the roof through a manhole and returned the bag and the explosives to their original location. There, I saw a black carry bag, but as I reached out to grab it, a worrying message came over the radio: ‘The owners are heading back! Abort! Abort!’

Within 30 seconds, I received another message saying that their vehicle was now entering the street and we had approximately twenty seconds to vacate. ‘Get out of there, guys!’ I immediately replaced the manhole cover, and with bag in hand, we made our way to the front door. My mind was racing, adrenaline was high and I had no idea how I was going to keep us from getting burnt.

I made it outside the front door and slammed it shut. As I did so, I heard a car’s engine rev as it proceeded up the driveway. Thinking fast, I immediately started pounding on the door to give the impression I was actually knocking. ‘What do you people want?’ was the greeting we received from the homeowners. I had a quick flash of the ‘For Sale’ sign I’d seen at the front of the property, so decided to pretend we were prospective buyers.

‘We were just on our way past and saw the ‘For Sale’ sign and wondered if there was any chance of having a look …’ I said, just convincingly enough. One of the owners looked somewhat perplexed, but seemed to buy it. He replied, ‘It’s best if you arrange an inspection through the agent. We’re a little busy right now to take you through.’

I apologised profusely and explained that we would follow the proper process and go through the agent. With the black bag in hand, I turned and began to head off down the drive, but I was unexpectedly stopped in my tracks.

‘Wait on!’ the homeowner called out, and I panicked. He must have seen the black bag and realised it was theirs. We were screwed – knowing the company these people kept – most significantly, suspected underworld assassins this job was supposed to be a clean ‘in and out’ operation.

I turned around slowly, expecting to see a gun pointed at my head. ‘Considering you’ve made the effort, I’m sure we can quickly show you around.’ Part of me felt like we were walking into an ambush, that the intention was to get us inside and out of public view so we could be privately executed, but another side of me thought they’d fallen for the ruse and truly believed we were in the market for a new house. Not prepared to raise the alarm, we accepted the invitation to inspect the home and went back inside. Thankfully, we were given a friendly guided tour of the house, and left with the agent’s details in case we wanted to come back for another look.

Returning to the RV, we told the investigators what had occurred and inspected the black bag. Inside, we found a number of items including make-up, wigs, false moustaches, balaclavas, stocking masks, a gun holster, handcuffs and a rolled-up towel. When we unravelled the towel, we found a pistol with the serial number removed – BINGO!

A few days later I contacted the real estate agent to arrange another inspection and informed him I would be bringing a friend who was a builder. Of course, he was in fact not a builder, but a specialist undercover officer who would be joining me, armed.

We were greeted by the agent and the owner for a more thorough inspection, but naturally, the roof cavity was our main area of concern. ‘Can my friend get a look at the foundations, the trusses and inside the roof cavity?’ I asked politely. Permission was granted and our builder went to work. Not surprisingly, he hit a snag soon after he crawled into the manhole. ‘Um, guys!’ he shouted. ‘I think I’ve found something I shouldn’t have!’ His declaration created a stir below, with the homeowner and agent rushing to see what he’d discovered.

‘What is it?’ the homeowner asked worriedly.

‘Looks like a garbage bag full of explosives,’ he answered. The job was going to plan. When he crawled back out and down the ladder, he played the part of ‘concerned tradie’ to a tee, describing some ‘unusual sausage-shaped items’ with the words ‘DANGER EXPLOSIVE’ written down the sides. Having already seen the contents and knowing they posed no risk in their current form, I suggested he climb back up and pass one of the items down so we could verify it. The owners agreed, and were shocked when they saw those words, ‘DANGER EXPLOSIVE’, for themselves. I suggested the owner should call the police, which he did after we evacuated.

Frustratingly, despite the evidence we uncovered and the pistol, Marcus’s murder still remains unsolved.

I look back on that operation and can’t help but think about the bizarre situations we often found ourselves in, and all the close calls we had. Being in the BRU was more than just inspecting bombs and defusing devices. Without wanting to sound arrogant, to be a member of the BRU you needed to be exceptionally clever and super resourceful due to the high-stakes nature of the work. Bomb technicians have to analyse the sometimes-intricate details of an explosive’s construction and all its various mechanisms. We must be able to figure out how a device was put together, and then reverse engineer it in order to disable it safely. The technical abilities and know-how of the individuals who put these things together varies greatly. You might be dealing with someone who learnt how to construct a bomb online using the dark web, or you could encounter the creation of an Einstein-like genius.

Given the variety of devices out there, we often face challenges that require innovative solutions, so thinking outside the box (no pun intended) is paramount. We need an intimate understanding of all the various components, including the wiring, circuitry, timers and mechanisms, and we have to stay up to date with current technology and techniques. We have to remain calm under the most intense pressure, and potentially with the sound of seconds ticking off a clock that signals the approach of our imminent doom. A single mistake can be the difference between life and death, so maintaining composure at all times is essential. With the environment another factor, and often hampered by an unforgiving and clunky bomb suit that limits mobility, we need to be able to adapt to circumstances. Having the patience of a saint is also a prerequisite, but perhaps the most critical attribute is attention to detail. Every little thing matters, and skipping over something could lead to a missed clue and result in a catastrophic event.

On top of all that, the one thing the George Marcus murder and subsequent investigation taught me was that the four-week bomb training course I’d completed in Bandiana was missing one essential class: how to be a compulsive liar.

Christmas was just around the corner and although I was technically ‘on-call’, I agreed to accompany my wife Jann to her work Christmas function. I’d barely had a chance to meet and greet the other guests at the end of year barbecue when I was called in to work to deal with a suspect device that had been located in the city. Jann gave me that all-too-familiar look, which essentially said: I knew this would happen and Just go, or perhaps it meant Get fucked – most likely the latter. I gave my apologies and headed to work to gather some equipment before attending the RV, where another bomb tech was waiting. On this occasion, it was a false alarm, which is often the case. Someone had mistaken some old electrical wiring and other related equipment for a bomb. Within an hour we gave the ‘all clear’ and the city block was once again teeming with life and traffic.

A quick job is a good job, especially when your wife is waiting for you at a social function, so I promptly gathered my gear and headed straight back to the barbecue. However, if Jann was disappointed the first time, that was nothing compared to the second time. As I was close to returning to the barbecue, I received another call about yet another suspicious device, this time in an outer suburb of Melbourne.

I was told evacuations were in place and cordons had been set up around a residential address where a dodgy package had been delivered. This was before the days of Amazon deliveries and boxes being left on people’s doorsteps regularly. This was back in a time when you were either expecting something or you weren’t, and if a package came that you weren’t expecting, it wasn’t just because you’d forgotten what you’d ordered online. The owners of the house were questioned and told police they hadn’t been expecting a delivery, and they didn’t know of anyone who may have wanted to do them harm.

After agreeing on a plan of attack, we made sure the area was clear of any people and deployed our specialist equipment to determine whether the box was sinister. It turned out it was just an empty box. Another ‘all clear’ and another function missed, as by then it was 10.30 pm. This time, when I headed back to the barbecue, it was merely to pick Jann up and drive her home.

We arrived home at midnight, and I was exhausted, but knew I had to be back in the office at 8 am. At 2.15 am I received yet another call – there was an urgent siege situation unfolding in Frankston. A man had discharged a .38 revolver inside his house in front of his wife and kids. The scene was only a matter of minutes away from where I lived at the time, so I knew I would be one of the first to arrive.

I met with an inspector and my sergeant at the RV, which was a fair distance away from the premises, and was relieved to hear that the wife and children had managed to flee the address and were out of harm’s way. The man was still armed with the revolver though, and needed to be contained and dealt with urgently.

I was given the address and headed to the house. When I arrived, I saw a police vehicle with members crouched beside it within close proximity, and in a perilous position. They were in the direct line of fire and didn’t even know it. I immediately removed the officers from danger, but left the police vehicle where it was, as it did provide some handy cover. I carefully moved to the front of the premises so I could get a line of sight on the property and make some observations to help form a plan of attack. I was armed with a 9 millimetre Beretta pistol and a shortened pistol grip Remington 870P pump-action shotgun. The shotgun was probably not the best choice of weapon for this situation due to its length, but it was much easier to carry when climbing over fences and navigating other tricky structures and obstacles.

I secreted myself directly across the road and was blanketed in darkness, thanks to the limited street lighting. Lying in a prone position beside a brick letterbox, I saw a shadowy figure walk down the driveway towards the road. I couldn’t tell if the person was male or female, or whether they had come from the target house or a neighbouring property, as there was no fence dividing the driveways. The individual walked at a very slow pace with their hands by their sides, ventured into the middle of the road and then stopped. Then they turned slightly to their right and began walking towards my position. As the individual got closer, I was able to identify him as male.

I watched as his left hand came up and paused at shoulder height in a horizontal position. Crack! The sound of a gunshot jolted me, and I saw the muzzle flash from a handgun. He’d fired in the direction of the command post, where several police officers were stationed. I immediately activated the lighting system on my shotgun, and began to shout, ‘Police! Don’t move!’ but before I was able to get the words out, he turned towards me and fired again. Crack!

I saw it all as clear as day, because I had my gun and lighting system trained on him. With my life in immediate danger, I fired a single shot and watched carefully as the man dropped onto the road and rolled onto his back. I approached with my gun still trained on him, and called out, ‘Police! Don’t move!’ several times. I moved in cautiously and saw a handgun lying on the road near the offender’s feet, which I kicked clear of his reach. He was moaning in pain and became more distressed when I tried to restrain him. I’d hit him with four slugs in the upper right shoulder. It would have hurt, but I knew he’d survive.

The ambulance arrived shortly after and treated his wounds before taking him to hospital. I was later informed that he’d criticised my aim, telling the nurses I was a terrible shot. In fact, he was extremely lucky I’d used the shortened barrel Remington shotgun, as the SG (small game) cartridge contains nine pellets of lead, and the cut-off barrel means the spread of the pellets leaving the barrel occurs at a faster rate, which no doubt prevented him from been hit with all nine.

After the incident I was directed to Frankston Police Station for an interview and to provide a statement. I had a brief chat with the police psychologist while the inspector of the SOG called Jann to tell her I had been in an incident and was okay, but wouldn’t be home for a while.

After completing all the tasks required, I was driven home, all the while reliving the shooting and how it all unfolded so fast. Knowing the man was alive and would make a full recovery was reassuring, but had I killed him, I would have been okay with that too. After all, he fired first – the consequences were the result of his poor choices that night.

I returned home to an empty house, as Jann worked weekends and had taken our children to her parents’. That gave me the opportunity to go for a long run and burn off the remaining adrenaline left in my system – which there was plenty of. This can be disturbing for family members of police – we can be relatively unfazed after shooting and sometimes even killing someone. What did get under my skin, however, was the negative news reporting we copped over that incident. That night on the TV the anchorman boomed: ‘FATHER SHOT BY POLICE’ and the headlines in the paper the next day read: ‘DAD SHOT AFTER SIEGE’. That angle was continued in the body of the article: ‘An armed father of four drank coffee and talked about family problems with a police sergeant only an hour before he was shot by police yesterday’.

As Jann argued, ‘Why don’t the headlines say: “Father of three shot at by father of four?”’

12

BOMBS AWAY

Riddled with bullet holes from drive-by shootings and the target of many police raids over the years, the Nitro Gym was located in the suburb of Hallam, in Melbourne’s south-east. The establishment was frequented by outlaw motorcycle gang members and had previously been owned by the boss of notorious gang the Comancheros. It was a place I knew all too well.

In 2013, I was called to Nitro to investigate some suspicious packages, thought to be bombs, that had been thrown inside by a rival gang. During the night, a number of gunshots rang out at Nitro, but no one reported them to police at the time. When staff arrived at 6 am, they observed bullet holes in the front windows and saw that the front door had been wedged open. There were a number of discharged shotgun cartridges on the footpath outside the gym, and two explosive devices on the floor inside.

I arrived with other members of the BRU, cleared the scene and evacuated the neighbouring buildings and factories. We deployed our bomb robots to get a closer look at the suspected improvised explosive devices (IEDs). Looking at the vision beamed back from the cameras on the robots, I could see that both devices had been constructed in a similar way. Each comprised a 20-litre jerry can, presumably full of petrol. One was metal and red in colour, and the other was plastic and green. Both had clear plastic Tupperware containers attached to the sides with silver gaffer tape. Protruding from each container was a length of safety fuse, and each container had something undistinguishable inside.

It was a painstaking task, but nearly four hours later, we were able to carefully remove the containers and separate them from the fuel cans. Having determined that the jerry cans contained the main explosive substance, it was then safe for me to move in and conduct a manual approach in my bomb suit. I jumped at the opportunity, as it was a rare occasion.

I went over my plan with the senior BRU member, who would observe me through the robot cameras once I was inside. I would be in constant communication with him, as the suit was equipped with a radio and a microphone within the helmet. With everything double- and triple-checked, I received the thumbs-up and was on my way.

As I moved towards the door of the gym, I saw my reflection in the front windows – I looked like the Michelin Man. I was trying to walk normally, knowing the media would likely be filming. This was not the time to fall over, as had happened many times to many of us during training.

I made my way to our robots, which were positioned between some gym equipment and the Tupperware containers. The suit was extremely restrictive, and I had to be careful not to get snagged on any of the gym equipment or I could stumble. At times I had difficulty manoeuvring around the devices, as the suit weighed about 40 kilograms (and the helmet added another nine). I was also carrying 15–20 kilograms of diagnostic equipment. This is why BRU members have to be supremely fit and healthy.

I focused on the Tupperware containers and separated them from any wires or other components. I saw that they contained a quantity of powder that was mixed with an explosive compound called Powergel, a length of detonating cord and a length of safety fuse. I felt perspiration running down my back, and the occasional drip fell into my eyes, stinging them briefly. I delicately checked the other parts of the devices for any more wires or components that could be used to detonate the containers, then communicated back to the command post that I was satisfied the bombs had been disarmed.

I had been in the suit for almost an hour, but it only felt like five minutes. Having rendered the containers safe, I conducted a detailed search of the venue to ensure we hadn’t missed anything. All I found was a number of shotgun wads, so I exited the gym, and we began removing the devices bit by bit, using the robots.

When we analysed the devices in the wash-up, we concluded that they had the potential to create a lot of damage, but there was a significant catch: whoever put them together had stuffed up. The components hadn’t been placed and joined in the appropriate order, which was why they didn’t detonate when they were thrown inside.

When I was working on the devices in the gym, I wasn’t aware they were incapable of detonating – that was only discovered afterwards. During the course of the operation, I felt that my life could end without me even knowing it.

Often, the only way we can determine if a device is active or capable of exploding is to initiate lengthy and disruptive procedures to enable us to examine them. None was more disruptive than a case I worked on in 2012, when there was a suspicious package left on a commercial airline at Melbourne Airport.

At 2.55 pm on a Wednesday in May, we were informed of a possible bomb on a plane. A drink container had been found on an Air Mauritius aircraft with the word ‘Bomb’ on it. The plane had recently departed and was headed to Perth, but was swiftly turned around mid-air and ordered to return to Tullamarine.

This was the first time I’d ever dealt with the words ‘bomb’ and ‘plane’, and the thought of such an incident both excited and terrified me. We were to be escorted to the plane’s location on the north–south runway at the airport. I made contact with the airport Bomb Appraisal Officer (BAO), who organised additional lighting in case the incident continued into the night. All passengers and crew were evacuated, and I asked to speak with any crew members or witnesses who had seen the container.

Most airlines have a standard procedure to follow in the event that a suspicious item or device is discovered. this involves the item being moved to the rear of the plane beside one of the doors, and then cushions, bags and other such soft items being placed on top. The crew confirmed that this action had been taken.

I spoke to the captain regarding any hazards I needed to be aware of, how much fuel was on board and if the internal lights were on or off. He explained that airline procedures required him to turn off all power, which was a concern, as it meant the hydraulics could release and the aircraft could start to roll. The captain also told me the aircraft now had only 30,000 litres of fuel on board. The discovery of the suspected bomb while airborne meant he’d been required to jettison 40,000 litres – that’s a lot of money.

Many agencies had become involved in the operation, and chaos was starting to creep in, meaning I had to step up and take control. We needed to know where the package had come from and what it was. With some more interrogation, I learnt that it looked like a typical can of soft drink that had a label with the handwritten word ‘Bomb’ stuck to the side. It was originally located in a snack/beverage trolley, so investigators tried to establish whether the trolley had been loaded onto the plane in Sydney or in Melbourne.

The main runway was shut down, causing travel disruptions right across the board, and with that came even more pressure to resolve the situation urgently. Catering staff were being questioned, as well as ground crews and cleaners from both states, as my phone was flooded with calls from high-ranking officers demanding to know how much longer we’d be.

I sent the first unit of BRU members in, told them to proceed to the rear of the craft and to check the aisles for any other suspicious items. It was a tense time, with all eyes on the plane and everyone praying an explosion wouldn’t occur. I received comms from the BRU team leader, who advised that no other packages had been identified and they had located the device. It had not, in fact, been covered with blankets or pillows as the airline protocols demand, and was instead placed inside an aluminium case. The team used the X-ray machine to see inside the container and found no evidence of bomb components, so determined it was safe to open. Being careful not to disrupt the box, the team leader opened the case and found a Schweppes soda water sitting inside with no wires or anything sinister-looking attached. But clearly visible was the word ‘Bomb’, written on masking tape, as described by the flight crew. Using more diagnostic equipment, the can was determined to contain only soda water, and was declared safe.

The relief in the terminal was significant, and once the plane was taxied to the terminal, flights were able to resume. Having been told that the can may have been on the aircraft for the last seven flights, I asked to get a look at it. On closer inspection, I believed the word ‘Bomb’ was actually someone’s name, ‘Borib’, but the ‘r’ and ‘i’ were joined together, making it look like an ‘m’.

It was an incredibly expensive exercise, though it wasn’t classified as a hoax in any way, just a misunderstanding that cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. Despite the pressure we were under to rush to a conclusion, we resisted and followed the correct procedures, ensuring everyone was safe and Air Mauritius didn’t have to buy another plane.

Each time we received a call about a suspicious package or a legitimate bomb threat, inevitably there were major disruptions in the area we had to work in. Because we were dealing with the potential of large-scale explosions and maximum damage, there was no way of avoiding shutdowns, evacuations, road closures and lengthy delays.

The BRU had an unusual year in 2014, with a number of major incidents. One morning I received a call at 4.30 am about a truck driver who was parked on the side of the freeway. Witnesses reported that he had a bomb.

As information flowed to us from the scene, we were able to piece together that the alleged offender had been found asleep in the cabin of his truck, on an inbound lane on the Monash Freeway. He wasn’t in a service lane but in the middle of the road, which made the scene all the more peculiar. When police arrived, they approached the cabin, looked inside and saw a small box attached to the driver’s head with what appeared to be wires running down his arm. All the activity outside the cabin startled the driver and woke him from his slumber. When he saw the police outside his vehicle, he panicked and sped away. After driving for approximately 4 kilometres, he did a U-turn and drove into oncoming traffic before stopping in the same place he had originally parked. It was a bizarre series of events, and his intentions remained unclear.

More police arrived on the scene and surrounded the truck. The driver was ordered to remove all his clothing and exit the vehicle, and when he did so, he was promptly arrested. With the driver now detained, it was our time to move in and do what we did best. I was aware that the driver may have thrown the device out of the truck when he sped away from police, which meant it could be lying somewhere else on the freeway, so we closed the road in all directions. Peak hour traffic was beginning to build.

It’s dangerous to make assumptions in my line of work, but having gathered all the relevant information about the man in the truck and the suspicious device he was carrying, I felt confident I knew exactly what we were dealing with. Still, I took all the necessary precautions when approaching the vehicle.

Within minutes I was joined by my partner. We quickly got kitted up in our bomb suits and prepared to conduct a search of the cabin. At that stage I was hoping we’d find the package in the truck, because if it wasn’t in there, we were in for a long day searching 4 kilometres of a four-lane freeway.

I stepped up to the door of the truck and pulled the handle. In this position, with my head and upper torso at seat level, I was extremely vulnerable. If a bomb went off, I’d take the full brunt of the blast and would be sent flying backwards and down onto the road below. I quickly scanned the cabin and found exactly what I was looking for.

The reason I was so sure about what we’d find was that I have many Jewish friends, and I have attended a number of bar/bat mitzvahs and Jewish weddings. I am close to the Jewish community, and had been fortunate to travel to Israel for a bomb conference and training course a few years prior. That meant I was aware that a tefillin, or phylacteries, is a small box that contains scrolls of parchment inscribed with verses from the Torah. The box has leather straps that are wrapped around the wearer’s arm. When I heard about the box and the straps or wires, I immediately thought of a tefillin. And sure enough, right there on the driver’s seat were two of them, along with the blue velvet pouch they’re carried in.

Within minutes, I declared the scene ‘clear’ and the freeway was reopened to traffic. I often wonder how long that job could have taken had I not been familiar with the tefillin. Had it been another BRU member, someone not familiar with the items, the freeway may have been closed for many more hours.

13

THE WEIGHT OF THE BADGE

Before joining the police force I had a rudimentary understanding of mental health issues, but nothing like the knowledge we have available today. Back then, it wasn’t uncommon to call someone a ‘nutter’ or ‘crazy’. This wasn’t meant to be disrespectful – it was more a reflection of our limited understanding. In most cases when we were called to deal with people who had serious mental issues, the situation was life and death.

Could we have handled situations better in those days? Certainly. But often, our actions were dictated by the actions of those in a crisis. We always aimed to resolve situations peacefully, but sometimes it felt like we were just trying to survive the moment.

On 12 May 2000, I was called to a siege in Avondale Heights, 11 kilometres north-west of Melbourne’s CBD. An individual had consumed a lot of alcohol and doused himself in petrol. Talks with negotiators had dragged on for hours with no resolution in sight, and the man was becoming increasingly agitated, clutching a container of fuel in one hand and a lighter in the other. The smell of petrol permeated the air all around the bungalow he was holed up in, so we cut off the power to the site to prevent accidental ignition.

The fire brigade was on stand-by, and my sergeant directed me to take a fire hose and position it under the rear window, ready to saturate the bungalow. Testing the hose, I was struck by the force of the water coming out; holding onto it took all my strength.

With the man becoming increasingly agitated, the call came to act. We smashed a bungalow window and I stood on a crate, balancing precariously as I pushed the lever forward on the hose nozzle. The force of the water nearly knocked me off my perch, but my sergeant steadied me from behind. The water blasted the offender against the wall, his feet barely touching the ground as he screamed for mercy. I was ordered to stop, but when he refused to comply with our demands I doused him one more time: rinse and repeat. Eventually, he surrendered. It was a successful conclusion, but not all incidents end that way.

One job in particular haunts me to this day. We had just finished a day of training, and I was about to sit down for dinner with the family when the phone rang. It was a recall – I was required at a siege in the beachside suburb of Mordialloc.

The briefing on this one was grim. A domestic situation had escalated, and a man had barricaded himself inside his garage with a .22 calibre rifle. Negotiators had been unable to make any contact, though movement could be heard inside. I was on the entry team, poised to be the first inside if we had to breach the garage.

We waited for about an hour, checking our equipment and whispering among ourselves. Then we heard a faint noise, like a small pop. It caught our attention, but baffled us – we had no idea what it was. Some thought it might have been a gunshot, but we couldn’t be sure. Smoke started to billow from the garage. Our sergeant ordered us to stay in position, but when the smoke thickened, the call came to move in.

I led the way to the side garage door, covered by another officer. The steel doorknob burned through my gloves as I tried to turn it. Shouldering the door with force, I managed to create a gap, but the door was barricaded from the inside. Smoke poured out, and flames licked the ceiling. The situation was dire. I crawled into the garage on my hands and knees and moved towards the back while my partner went to the front. The smoke was thick, and visibility was near zero. There was clutter everywhere, making our progress slow and dangerous.

Over the radio, my sergeant’s voice crackled with urgency as he ordered us to retreat and get to safety. The fire was too intense, the smoke too thick and visibility was now zero. We backed out, struggling to find our way to the door. Coughing and gasping for air, our gas masks started melting at the edges from the intense heat. We managed to find an exit and ripped our masks off and fell to the ground. Clean air filled my lungs as I coughed and spluttered. The fire brigade arrived, but the structure was already well alight. They found the man’s body in the corner of the garage. It was determined he had lit the fire before ending his life with a gunshot to the head.

In the aftermath, a sombre mood prevailed. We analysed our actions, looking for ways to improve, but the reality was harsh – sometimes, there are no happy endings, and you can’t help people who don’t want to be helped. Regardless, the weight of failure and that feeling of helplessness has stayed with me. I drove home that night with the tragedy heavy on my mind, but knew I had to shield my family from the darkness I’d just experienced. Policing can be emotionally tough. The lives we save and the lives we lose stay with us forever.

No two sieges are ever the same, and the motivations of the offenders vary. While mental health can be a factor, other emotional issues can also trigger unexpected and violent actions, especially when excess drugs or alcohol are involved.

On one particular occasion, too much alcohol and an AFL Grand Final result were all it took to spark a bloody siege.

In 2002, the Brisbane Lions defeated the Collingwood Magpies to claim the AFL Premiership. It was a close game that was enjoyed by many – except most Collingwood supporters, and a man in his twenties we shall refer to as Offender X, who lived in Skye, in Melbourne’s south-east. Offender X had been drinking with friends during the game. After the loss, he travelled to Collingwood’s training base to drown his sorrows with other like-minded supporters.

Agitated by the defeat of his beloved Magpies and now heavily intoxicated, he returned home and took things out on his partner. He woke her violently, slapping and kicking her, before pouring liquid over her. She defended herself and called the police, who found her outside the house with swollen eyes, and cuts and bruises to various parts of her body, as well as an ear wound that required six stitches. She was taken to hospital for treatment, leaving Offender X in the house with her two children, aged four and six. Offender X was armed with a pickaxe.

During negotiations, Offender X continually demanded the attendance of then Collingwood captain, Nathan Buckley. It was 3 am when I was called to attend because I lived close by. As the first SOG member on the scene, I tried to get as much information as possible before the rest of the team arrived. I was briefed by the local senior sergeant, and checked that suitable cordons had been established and all the neighbours evacuated.

Standing out the front, I could clearly hear Offender X yelling, and could tell he was still highly strung and violent. Although unarmed – the other men would bring my weapons and equipment – I felt confident enough to conduct some preliminary reconnaissance to locate the children. On entering the backyard, I noticed that the property dropped away, meaning the rear of the house was a lot higher than the front. I memorised the picture of the floorplan, then made my way to the rear corner of the house, outside a bedroom window. I could hear a child crying, which caused my blood pressure to rise – after all, I had children of my own of a similar age. I couldn’t help but think how evil Offender X would have to be to bash these children’s mother and terrorise them like this – what a coward!

I found a garden table, dragged it under the kitchen window and stood on it so I could see into the house. I slowly raised my head, attempting to stay incognito, and observed Offender X walking around the kitchen in a Collingwood football jumper. He clutched onto the pickaxe as he paced, muttering to himself. He was a large man, and his mannerisms and demeanour were very aggressive. I jumped down from the table and made my way to the rear door to see if it was unlocked – it wasn’t. Using a garden implement, I quietly unlocked the door to give the entry team quick access should the boys need it.

With my mission accomplished, I returned to the command post as the rest of the SOG members arrived. I grabbed my equipment and began to kit up while I briefed my inspector, senior sergeant and team sergeant about my observations. I helped develop an entry plan, and was tasked with leading the team inside.

With several SOG team members in tow, as well as a Dog Squad member and his dog, I returned to the rear of the house. We stopped and waited at the rear door until the offender was observed at the front of the house, thus enabling us to enter the house and place ourselves between him and the children. I positioned the dog handler in front of me, but had my hand on the rear door, ready to open it when we got the signal.

Offender X was still pacing around inside, yelling and screaming because Nathan Buckley still hadn’t arrived. As he moved to the front of the house, the signal was given and we stormed in. Highly alert, Offender X heard the back door unlatch and sprinted down the hallway, putting himself between us and the children. The police dog attempted to lunge forward, but slipped on the polished floorboards as Offender X thrust himself at the handler and tried to punch him in the head.

I immediately jumped in front of the handler, and Offender X lined me up with another swing. I saw his fist coming, and with a smile, I tilted my head down and let his knuckles slam into my ballistic helmet, knowing it would be extremely painful for him and have little effect on me. As his clenched fist collided with my helmet, I removed my baton and brought him to ground with a thud.

I fell on top of him as we crashed into the children’s bedroom – both girls started screaming in terror as we struggled violently on the floor in front of them. It was a tiny room, and there was barely enough space for us. I locked up Offender X’s limbs and retarded him, and he eventually submitted. As I got off him, the other members grabbed his legs and dragged him out of the room.

I removed my goggles, helmet and balaclava and turned my attention to the two young girls, who were quivering in the corner of the bottom bunk, holding each other in fear. It was heartbreaking. I had a flash of my own two girls, and did everything I could to assure them I was there for their safety and wasn’t going to harm them. Within minutes we connected, and they realised I was one of the good guys. They asked about their mother and I told them she was safe, and that they could see her soon.

I think a lot about that job and what could have happened had we not intervened. Leaving those girls unprotected with an axe-wielding madman could have ended in disaster. We have no idea what he may have done to them. Each and every situation we face is different, and we have to adapt and plan accordingly, based on the information available. A siege can be one of the most intense and unpredictable situations any police officer can deal with, and when you’re in a group like the SOG, you face them more than any other department. The stakes are always high, and the outcomes can easily swing between life and death.

There is so much we have to weigh up and consider. The offender may be experiencing severe mental distress, substance abuse or a combination of factors that make their behaviour erratic and unpredictable. That unpredictability can often lead to sudden violent outbursts or decisions that escalate a situation. In many cases, the offender feels trapped and desperate due to personal issues. Their desperation can trigger irrational and dangerous decisions, such as attempting to harm themselves or others. This makes negotiations extremely delicate, as one wrong suggestion or move can set off an unfortunate chain of events.

Both the offender and the officers are under immense levels of stress, and this heightened tension can lead to split-second decisions being made. A single mistake can result in the ultimate tragedy. For example, an officer might misinterpret a movement as a threat to himself or an innocent bystander, or the offender might panic and act violently. In other situations, a lack of clear communication between the negotiators, the SOG and the offender can cause the situation to escalate. Clear, calm and consistent communication is critical, but is sometimes difficult to maintain under pressure.

There is also the physical set-up of the siege location, which can complicate matters. As I’ve outlined above, barricaded doors and entries, hostages, and limited visibility can all hinder the SOG’s ability to respond effectively. The environment can easily be manipulated by the offender to create dangerous traps, or to limit our ability to intervene.

If the suspect is armed, it goes without saying that the threat level increases. The potential for sudden violence means that every action we take must be carefully calculated to minimise risk.

These days, police are more likely to wait it out rather than force an ending to a siege – as was the case in the early days. The longer a siege lasts, the more fatigued and stressed everyone involved becomes, though that’s something we usually use to our advantage. Prolonged negotiations can wear down the offender, leading to a peaceful surrender. In the event an offender threatens immediate harm to themselves or others, we might be forced to act and initiate a forced entry. Rapid decisions like this are sometimes necessary, but come with higher risks and a greater potential for things to go wrong.

On some occasions, offenders may issue ultimatums or make demands that are impossible to meet – like requesting Nathan Buckley’s attendance in Skye. Considering such demands while ensuring the safety of everyone involved is delicate, and can easily tip a situation towards violence if not handled well. Often, the presence or involvement of the offender’s loved ones, family and or friends can either help de-escalate a situation or complicate it further, depending on their relationship.

In other words, a siege situation is complicated, and there’s no ‘one size fits all’ approach. They are volatile in nature, and the outcome can often swing perilously close to the edge. Extensive training and preparation is key, and the reason the SOG is the only group equipped to deal with these most challenging scenarios.

14

A LIFE-CHANGING MOMENT

By 2003 I had been in the unit for approximately fourteen years, and had become one of the foremost experts in climbing and mountaineering. I was the main instructor in rural and urban roping and climbing, airborne operations – which included rappelling and extractions using the police helicopter – and fast-roping.

My passion for climbing had been ignited during the SOG induction course because of two absolute gurus, Paul Carr and Greg Linsdell, who taught me everything there was to know about climbing and mountaineering. On a number of occasions, I went to Mount Arapiles – an impressive rock formation in western Victoria – to climb with other members of the unit, and on other occasions, it was just Paul and our families climbing while our children played in the camping ground below.

In 1998, Paul put an advertisement on the noticeboard at work about an upcoming three-week climb in Nepal, to Mera Peak. While Mera was not a challenging climb in comparison to the other great peaks, it was no walk in the park, and at an elevation of 6476 metres it required elite fitness. I was the first to put my name down for the adventure. It was my first climb at an altitude that required crampons (a metal plate with spikes fixed to your boots), and the experience was life-changing. I’d found my true calling.

From that point on, things escalated (no pun intended), and in 2002 Paul declared we should plan to conquer Mount Everest.

Scaling Everest isn’t just something you can decide to do – it takes a lot of work and training to get to the point where you can even consider it. To prepare, we decided to tackle Cho Oyu in Tibet, also called the ‘Turquoise Goddess’, which at 8188 metres is the sixth-highest mountain in the world. Again, my name was first on the list – but this time, it ended up being the only one. To my knowledge, there was no one else capable of completing such a feat, other than Greg, who was unable to participate due to other commitments.

Just when I thought things were on track for our next climb, I was stunned to hear that a group of Victoria Police had set a date to climb Cho Oyu and then Mount Everest. This was all news to me, and when I enquired about it, I discovered I had been cut from the trip. To say I was extremely disappointed would be an understatement – it was a severe kick in the guts. Paul never told me face-to-face and I didn’t confront him about it – after all, he was my inspector and the officer in charge of the Special Operations Group.

To this day, I don’t know why Paul’s decision was left unspoken, but I suspect he picked other climbers because they had contacts who could help fund the trip. Greg tried to talk Paul out of doing the climb with a group of strangers, but to no avail. I considered confronting Paul upon his return, but that opportunity never came to be.

On 14 May 2003, two to three weeks after Paul had left for his expedition, I was up at 5 am and headed to the office for a personal training session before I clocked on at 8 am. After attending the morning briefing, my team was assigned surveillance training in the CBD, but two hours in, we were ordered back to HQ. My adrenaline always spiked off the back of such urgent calls, because they often meant there was a big job on, but my hopes for an exciting afternoon were quickly dashed.

The office was eerily quiet, and the usual buzz and energy was non-existent. The men who had returned before me seemed to be avoiding eye contact, which gave me a sick feeling in my guts. Instinctively, I knew something bad had happened. My mind started racing: was my family okay? Had someone been shot or killed? Was I going to be sacked? One of the men told me to go to the inspector’s office and I thought, Oh, this is not fucking good. From that point on, everything was a blur as the inspector informed me that Paul had died on Cho Oyu. There were limited details, and his family hadn’t even been told yet. I was in shock; there was no way Paul was dead.

Paul was a wonderful human who radiated calmness and strength. He had boundless confidence, but was always humble. Whenever there was a daunting challenge, either on the job or on a cliff face, he reassured and inspired everyone around him. Paul could light up a room, and had an uncanny way of finding the positive in even the direst of situations. As a father, he doted on his daughters, and I’m sure he would have adopted my son, Damian, if he could have. Paul was one of the most respected officers Victoria Police has ever had.

I stormed into the change rooms and punched my locker in frustration. Another member had just walked in, but did an about face when he saw how furious I was. My emotions were mixed: anger, sadness, frustration, sorrow, guilt, disbelief, hurt. There was even a sense of betrayal. How could he do this to me? I thought he was invincible!

I was asked to accompany our inspector to deliver the news to Paul’s family. I had known Paul’s second wife Julie for years, and was close to his first wife, Liz, and his three daughters. The ‘death knock’ is perhaps the worst job for a police officer. While many officers have to perform this duty dozens of times during their careers, I had avoided it up until that point.

So it came to be; my first death knock was on the front door of a close mate’s house. So many times I’d walked up those front steps with Jann, excited to being spending time with Paul and Julie. This time, I felt physically ill. As we knocked on the door, I felt numb, and a hot flush came over me as I prepared to make eye contact.

The door opened, and Julie immediately knew we were there to deliver bad news. Out of respect, I won’t go into detail about that experience with Julie, but I will say the tears flowed freely as we all tried to make sense of what had happened.

Next, I had to deliver the news to Paul’s ex-wife. I hadn’t seen Liz for a number of years, and as I approached her, she had a huge smile on her face. But her smile disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, as she too realised I wasn’t there for a happy reunion. I told her about Paul, and then drove her home from work. When we arrived, her eldest daughter was in the driveway, visibly upset – the news had started to spread.

Next, we drove to their younger daughters’ school to pull them out of class and let them know what had happened. That was one of the toughest days of my life, and I couldn’t help but think of my own children and how they’d react if it was me or Jann who had died. I returned to Julie’s and stayed at her house for much of the night. Although I wanted to hide away and grieve, I knew I needed to support Paul’s family.

When the police welfare team called in to check on the family and me, I was incredibly ungrateful. One asked, ‘How are you going, sir?’ and I snapped, ‘How do you think I’m fucking going? I’ve just lost one of my best mates and had to break the news to his family – yeah, I’m doing great! Thanks!’ I wasn’t in control of my emotions, and I didn’t apologise – I didn’t think I needed to.

Paul had died at high altitude at Camp 3 on Cho Oyu, and was found in his tent by his climbing partner, Nick Farr. It was later revealed one of Paul’s coronary arteries was half blocked by cardiovascular disease. When you’re at altitude, your blood thickens and your heart has to work harder to pump it, but because of Paul’s medical condition (which was unknown at the time), he had a heart attack. On most mountains there’s a rule, ‘where you die is where you lie’, but there was a collective desire to bring Paul home.

Victoria Police engaged with the Australian Embassy in Kathmandu and the Chinese and Nepalese governments to coordinate a mission to retrieve Paul’s body. This involved convincing the Chinese Government to allow a Nepalese helicopter into Chinese airspace. Greg and I were on stand-by to fly to Kathmandu to help.

Four Nepalese Sherpas – Tika Banarur Tamang, Parang Sherpa, Tamha Ongli Sherpa and Pasang Gyelgen Sherpa – accepted the challenge. Their extreme bravery will never be forgotten by Paul’s family and close friends.

The helicopter was piloted by Colonel KC Madan, who was famous for his daring rescues on Mount Everest; we couldn’t have asked for a better pilot.

Seeing Paul lifeless was heartbreaking. I had the task of removing all his personal property so it could be returned to his family. It wasn’t something I wanted to do, but something I had to do. Everything Paul had on the mountain was still with him. I had to take off each of his carabiners, which were still connected to his harness. I attached one of those carabiners to my own harness, and it’s been with me on every climb since 2003. Paul’s carabiner is taped shut and can never be used, but it’s my way of having him with me.

Whilst in Kathmandu, I went through all of Paul’s clothing and equipment and made sure everything was washed for Julie. Packing his clothes should have taken me fifteen minutes, but ended up taking hours, as I had to continually walk away, sit down and gather my emotions. I couldn’t believe what I was doing.

After several days, we were given the all-clear to bring Paul home. The Sherpas bid us farewell and adorned us with traditional Nepalese good luck scarves. At the airport, Greg and I remained with the casket, determined to ensure it was put on the plane and treated with care.

Prior to landing in Melbourne, all passengers were instructed to stay in their seats while we were given priority to go through customs and witness the unloading of the casket. We were joined by other members of the SOG, who brought the infamous ‘Spook’ – the unit’s now-banned flag – and draped it over the casket with Paul’s black SOG cap on top. The casket was driven to a private hangar where Paul’s family was waiting. Members of the SOG carried the casket through a guard of honour. The tears flowed, and many hardened members of the SOG were visibly upset and shaken.

Paul’s funeral was one of the biggest held at the Police Academy, with thousands in attendance. The guard of honour was more than 600 metres long, with the hearse following four dark chestnut horses and seven kilted pipers. As the procession hit the halfway mark along the road, three helicopters in tight formation flew overhead at low altitude and buzzed the cortege before breaking formation and splitting off in different directions like a starburst … I know Paul would have been super impressed by the ceremony.

Weeks later, I received a letter from Paul’s parents, Betty and Bernie, which said in part that they appreciated my care and support:

As soon as I am alone each day or at night, the series of moving picture (like) dramas keep scrolling through my head … highs, lows, disappointments, excitement, relief, grief and blessings to have been part of your wonderful and positive pursuit to rescue and return our beloved son Paul. Initially I think I thanked you each day marvelling at your wonderful support … I think I said to you it was apparent to me this was far more than mateship and I could see a love between you more like a brother as you often told me Possum would have done the same for you. I know he would have been there every step of the way in the same manner for you … You are all able to plumb depths of strengths which most people don’t even know they are capable of … In a lot of ways, I see a considerable series of likeness between you and Paul. You seem to have the same spiritual reasons in your visits to the mountains, your eyes light up with excitement in the same way as Paul’s did talking about your treks and your quiet love and compassion of the simple way of life of their people comes through, not forgetting the physical ability to be able to complete these journeys.

15

CONQUERING EVEREST

After Paul’s death, a desire burned deep within me to pay homage to his life and legacy by doing what he’d set out to do – conquer Mount Everest. While I never underestimated the enormity of the task, getting there would prove to be one of the toughest challenges of my life.

In 2005, two years after Paul passed away, finding the time and money to dedicate to an Everest expedition was proving difficult. We wanted to raise money for the Make-A-Wish Foundation, and also had a lead-up climb to complete in Argentina in preparation, as we desperately needed some altitude training and conditioning.

On 5 January 2005, Greg Linsdell and I departed for South America to climb one of the seven great summits, Aconcagua. Located in Argentina, Aconcagua has an altitude of 6962 metres. The seven summits include the highest mountains on each continent, and conquering them all is a climber’s dream.

We were led by expert mountaineer Jon Muir, who had summited Everest and worked for World Expeditions.

It was a three-day walk into base camp over an extremely dusty environment, which came as a surprise, as I’d been expecting snow. By the third day I could see Aconcagua in the distance with its white, snow-covered top. Many rivers and streams were crossed, and on numerous occasions we had to remove our shoes and socks and wade through the freezing mountain water.

Our first lesson was to never have your backpack strapped to your body when crossing a waterway – always leave the clips undone. If you got swept away by rushing water with your pack attached to your body, there was a good chance you’d drown. Having the clips undone meant you could detach yourself before going under.

The trek was far from easy. On one particular day we could barely move forward due to the strength of the headwinds. To make matters worse, the gale was blowing dust into our eyes, blinding us. At night we had to weigh our tents down with rocks because the ground was so hard it was impossible to bash tent pegs in. Digging a hole for the toilet was also impossible, which made the site disgusting.

When ‘summit day’ arrived, I expected the climb to be more straightforward. I was wrong. The track was so slippery and unstable, it was a case of three steps forward, one slide back. It was a gruelling day, and as it was my first experience of this altitude, I suffered immensely. I developed severe sinusitis due to the amount of dust I had inhaled, and the oxygen levels in my blood were severely depleted.

With patience and determination, I finally made it to the top. As I sat at the top of the mountain and took in the stunning views, I thought about Paul. I was completely exhausted, but his memory kept me strong and focused. Mount Everest was 1.8 kilometres higher than where I sat, but I didn’t let that perturb me.

Summiting Aconcagua was a necessary step towards tackling Everest, but there was no real way to prepare for what the highest mountain in the world would throw at me.

My training for the Everest climb was relentless. I would arrive at work at 5.30 am, load up a backpack with a combined weight of 40 kilograms, and do a lap around Albert Park Lake. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I climbed the stairs in the old Victoria Police Centre – the eastern end was fifteen stories, and I would complete ten sets. It got to the point where I didn’t have to look at the door numbers to see what level I was on because I had memorised the various stains and chips in the concrete.

On average, I managed to train three hours a day, although on some occasions I would ride my push-bike to work – a round trip of 120 kilometres. On weekends I would head to Arthurs Seat in Dromana with my backpack and complete ten repetitions up and down the mountain. I’d take my poor dog, Arnie, with me. He’d do the first two circuits with me, then sit under a tree with Jann until I had completed the rest.

I also made up some ladder training, placing an aluminium ladder across my swimming pool. I would put my climbing boots and crampons on, then walk backwards and forwards across the ladder in preparation for crossing crevasses.

I had done the physical work, but I knew altitude could be another issue. I still had those bad experiences climbing Aconcagua on my mind. Everyone is different and there’s no possible way to fully safeguard against potential altitude sickness. I’d trained in an attitude chamber prior to Everest for more than two months and it still didn’t fully prepare me.

We were going with a company called Jagged Globe, whose lead guide was British mountaineer Kenton Cool. Kenton had successfully summited Everest the year before, and has now completed the climb eighteen times.

As we got ready to board our flight I felt extremely nervous. I placed my bags on the scales and they were over the limit by about 40 kilograms. It probably didn’t help that I was carrying about 5 kilograms of Mars Bars! I knew we’d be gone for up to three months and thought it would be nice to have some treats along the way.

After a brief stopover in Bangkok, we boarded a second flight on a small jet liner. As we made our descent, we saw the full scale of the Himalayas, with the tallest mountains protruding through the clouds, including the King of the World, Everest. I thought to myself, Are we really doing this?

Our trip would be under the control of two different companies: the climbing company, Jagged Globe, would be responsible for me and the other two climbers, plus a film crew. World Expeditions would be responsible for a small contingent of family members who’d made the trip. They would accompany us to base camp before returning to Melbourne.

When we arrived at the Summit Hotel, we met Kenton and the base camp manager, Mick, who was coughing and sneezing. We distanced ourselves from him, knowing that if we contracted any type of illness it would likely end our expedition.

We also met two other climbers, Eric and Jack, who had also engaged Jagged Globe to take them to the top. Jack was an older man who immediately started bragging about his many climbing achievements. I was just waiting for him to ask me which mountains I’d climbed. And sure enough, he did. I looked at Greg with a smirk and replied sarcastically, ‘Have you heard of Arthurs Seat?’

Finally, the day arrived for our mission to begin. We would fly from Kathmandu Airport to Tenzing-Hillary Airport, then known as Lukla Airport, which is one of the most dangerous in the world. While it is estimated that more than 300 people have died attempting to summit Everest, there are major risks prior to climbing it, and Lukla is definitely one of them. The airport is 2845 metres above sea level, and the runway is just 527 metres long. For pilots to be qualified to land at Lukla, they must complete at least 100 short take-offs and landings, have at least one year’s experience in Nepal and have completed at least ten flights into Lukla with a certified instructor. The runway is boxed in by mountains, there are ranges on each side and a vertical cliff blocking the end. So, once a pilot commits to landing, there’s no pulling up.

We departed Kathmandu in two groups: Jagged Globe on the first plane and World Expeditions on the second. That meant I’d be separated from Jann and my family. Knowing the risks involved and the problems with Lukla, I was extremely nervous about being split up, but there was nothing I could do about it.

Our plane was a dual propeller and belonged to Yeti Airways. There was one row of seats down either side of a narrow aisle. Leaning out into the aisle, I could see the pilot and co-pilot as they prepared for take-off. I have been on many amusement rides in my life, and even bungee jumped once, but this was a ride I will never forget – for all the wrong reasons. As we neared Lukla Airport, we snaked through the valleys and glided past the rugged cliff walls. The turbulence started to increase, then the plane hit an air pocket and dropped dramatically in altitude. Some of the passengers screamed each time the plane jolted and dipped violently. Now swaying from side to side, it felt like the pilot was losing control. People started laughing nervously, but another severe plunge wiped those smiles away. It felt like our seatbelts were barely holding us down. The screams suddenly stopped and were replaced with tears.

I looked out through the cockpit window and saw the runway in the distance. I checked my seatbelt and pulled it tighter. As the plane continued to sway, I could see why the pilots that flew into this place had no option to pull up once they’d committed to their approach – there was no turning around; this was a one and done proposition. I wasn’t at all convinced our pilot had nailed our approach as the plane swayed, vibrated and jolted. We were locked in now, beyond the point of no return. The engines trembled and roared as we descended through the low-hanging clouds. The runway, perched on the edge of a mountainside, rushed up to meet us. The tyres screeched as they skidded across the narrow strip – touchdown! There was a collective sigh of relief as everyone exhaled.

Confidence quickly returned and everyone started laughing as we relived the harrowing flight. But I quickly realised I had to wait for Jann and the family to make the same landing.

Thirty minutes later, their plane appeared in the distance and thankfully, it arrived safely. Those on board were a pale shade of green when they disembarked, having had a similar experience to us.

With our backpacks on, we made our way out of the township of Lukla into a magnificent lush green countryside. It is hard to explain the sheer beauty of the area, with mountains all around. I felt tiny among those snow-covered giants of the world. As we trekked, we were continually passed by porters carrying loads of equipment to distant villages for their climbing clients. Among these small Nepalese people, I felt like a giant, too. But their size belied their strength – I couldn’t believe the weight they could bear. It is estimated some porters can carry between 100 and 200 per cent of their body weight. They get paid per kilogram, and some do it wearing thongs!

In the distance we could hear the ringing of bells, which grew louder as we walked. Our head guide, Manos, told us to move away from the cliff edge and stand on the high side. A number of large beasts appeared, tied in a line with colourful collars and bells attached. They were unfazed as they passed, their sharp horns missing us by mere millimetres. Manos explained that we must always move to the high side when passing these animals; should we be on the cliff side, we could inadvertently be pushed off the path and into the valley below.

After a number of hours we arrived at our first camping spot in the village of Phakding, at an altitude of 2652 metres – higher than the highest mountain in Australia. Accommodation was limited, and I ended up in a guest-house with our base-camp manager, Mick, who was still coughing and spluttering.

Although our first day was short, we were already feeling the effects of the high-altitude environment. We were told to drink plenty of water, and to only accept it from our guides or cook. It is common for tourists to buy bottled water from the villages, but sometimes locals refill used bottles from streams and reseal them with tape. The village waste runs into those streams, meaning one sip could be diabolical.

The next morning, an impromptu game of soccer commenced between some of the young porters, who were full of energy and exuberance. One of our group members decided to join in, but the attempt was short-lived, as he quickly lost his breath and could only watch on as the boys ran circles around him.

We had a long walk to Namche Bazaar, and by the middle of the afternoon, we found ourselves in the middle of a heavy downpour. The last hour of hiking was up a steep grade, and several members of the group struggled.

We had now reached 3446 metres and were hoping for a good sleep. That night we met the Jagged Globe Sherpas, who had been awaiting our arrival. Kenton introduced each of the Sherpas and told us how many times they’d summited Everest. We were in awe, and I personally felt I didn’t deserve to be in the same room as them. Despite their superhuman feats, they were all so shy and humble. Climbing Everest for them would be like me climbing a few flights of stairs back home. Upon being introduced, we bowed our heads in respect. I learned later that they were deciding who they wanted to climb with by gauging our fitness and body types, and assessing whether we would make it to the top.

Each morning, the first rays of the sun helped us defrost from the cold air, which scraped down my throat as I breathed. I started to feel unwell – probably thanks to my proximity to Mick. We headed to the highest hotel in the world, Hotel Everest View, which sat at 3880 metres. It had been designed to provide a view of Everest from every room, and 360-degree views of the Himalayas.

I was up at first light and my throat was burning. When you get a cold or fever at altitude, it’s very difficult to recover. It was just something I had to put up with.

As the journey continued, the mood in the group grew flat. Whether it was the altitude, diet or the weather, it seemed to spread through the entire party. There was little communication, and bad vibes.

In Dingboche at 4410 metres, we had three rest days, which meant going for walks to gain more altitude to help us acclimatise. On the first rest day we ascended to 5500 metres.

It was a challenging day for those who came for the altitude climb, with old Jack racing ahead. He reached the top first, and frowned at us when we finally joined him, as if to suggest we’d taken too long. But I’d learnt from Jon Muir, Kenton and Manos that it is never a race, and you need to walk at your own pace.

Gorakshep, at 5164 metres, was the last tea-house before base camp. Once there, our families would return to Australia. Reflecting on the last seven days, I realised I had been quite selfish – my mind had been elsewhere, and I’d had limited communication with Jann and Damian, who’d come on the trip to support me. All I’d been thinking about was my health. Everest had become an obsession, and I was determined to succeed. As we neared base camp, I found myself continually scanning the horizon, trying to find Everest. Jann told me I was already on the mountain, and was missing everything around me. I realised Everest was eating me up.

At base camp we met two new members of the Jagged Globe team, the cook (the most important person) and Nima the Sirdar Sherpa, who was in charge of the Sherpas and the running of the camp.

It was time to farewell my family. Not someone who’s ever been good at goodbyes, I gave Jann and Damian a kiss and a hug, then said, ‘See you later’.

I couldn’t shake my virus, and it was suggested I return to a lower altitude for three to four days. I refused, but agreed that if I didn’t improve the following day, I would reconsider.

We spent the first three days at base camp acclimatising and eating as much as possible – as you gain altitude you lose your appetite, as your metabolism changes, and it becomes harder to gain any weight. My voice was croaky, and I avoided talking as I didn’t want to spread any germs. Sitting in the cold didn’t help, and I was getting worse. The most common way to successfully summit Everest is to adopt a stage-by-stage approach which involves climbing to a certain altitude, staying at that altitude for a number of hours, then descending to base camp – this process is repeated throughout the expedition with the altitude levels increasing as your body acclimatises.

After two days at Base Camp, I helped Kenton and the Sherpas establish a mock course with ladders and ropes near the Khumbu Icefalls on the way to Camp One. The Icefalls is a 330-metre, near-vertical wall of constantly moving and crumbling ice. There were numerous crevasses we’d have to cross on multiple ladders, which are joined end-to-end by rope. Then there’s unpredictable weather that can change at a moment’s notice, requiring mountaineers to return to a lower altitude or seek immediate shelter.

Being in the SOG and having spent most of my life setting up similar challenges, courses and tests made this a fun exercise. The layout was designed to see if we had the skills to ice climb, self-rescue, abseil with crampons and walk across ladders. Failure would mean an unacceptable risk. The pressure was on not to make a fool of myself, and I was glad I had done so much training over my swimming pool at home. I didn’t find the course difficult, but it did prove who had done the necessary training.

The Khumbu Icefalls are considered one of the most dangerous locations to pass through when climbing Everest. Climbers are advised to leave early while temperatures are low, when the ice should stay frozen and intact and is less likely to break away. When we left at 6.30 am I felt like a kid in a lolly shop, filled with excitement to finally be beginning the trek to the summit. It was a twenty-minute trek to the Icefalls, where I had to climb a small steep rise. Reaching the top, I proceeded down a few metres surrounded by walls of ice and walking over frozen water. The thought of falling through and plunging into icy water was firmly on my mind.

It wasn’t long before Greg and I were separated from the others as we headed further into the Icefalls. Halfway in, the sun broke through the clouds and found us. The extremes were evident; one moment it felt like we were inside a freezer, the next we were stripping off clothing and applying sunscreen. Many climbers have suffered severe sunburn to the insides of their mouths from walking with their mouths open, burnt by the sun reflecting off the snow. So, despite the heat, I chose to wear a balaclava to cover my face.

After four hours we arrived at the base of the Western Cwm (Welsh for valley), a broad, flat, glacial valley basin at the foot of the Lhotse Face of Mount Everest. As I gazed up at the wall of ice that stood 25 metres above us, I envisaged it breaking off and burying us in a matter of seconds. This was one place where I did not want to stand around admiring the scenery, but rushing through wasn’t an option, as there were only two sets of ladders, side by side. We had to be patient, and wait our turn to cross.

Greg was the first to ascend and halfway up, I saw the ladder was bending in the middle. I was glad I didn’t weigh as much as he did! We stayed at the top of the Western Cwm and waited for the others to arrive before making our way back to base camp. Unfortunately, old Jack found the going tough, but it wasn’t his fault (of course), it was everyone else’s. It was becoming clear that old Jack wasn’t much of a team player.

As we returned to base camp we heard an avalanche roar down a nearby cliff face. It was extremely unnerving. While the ice falls copped the brunt, we experienced some of the aftermath as a fine mist of powder swept over us. We were told it had happened just 200 metres from our position.

That night was one of the worst nights I’d ever had. I was still suffering the effects of bronchitis or the flu, on top of being dehydrated from the trek to the Western Cwm, and I’d now been hit with severe food poisoning. It was almost enough to end me. I hadn’t been in bed long when I began to feel nauseous. I reached for a plastic bag and was ill, and then had to dash to the toilet twenty metres away. It was a process I repeated about twenty times that night and into the morning. Kenton, Eric and Mick all had the same issue.

I managed to get an appointment with the base camp doctors, who told me I had an infected voice box and to rest for two weeks. Although I listened to their advice, I didn’t follow it. I knew the only chance I’d have of getting any better was to move to a lower altitude, and I wasn’t going to give up that easily.

We were off to the Icefalls again, and headed to Camp One. As we trekked, Greg and I passed dozens of other climbers who were struggling. One was on his hands and knees as he travelled over a crevasse on a ladder. Some had reportedly taken ten to twelve hours to travel from base camp to Camp One; Greg and I set out to achieve it in four.

I was feeling good, despite being ill just a few days ago. Having completed a strenuous section that included a steep incline of about 30 metres, I stood on the edge of a massive slab of ice and looked down into the small ice valley below. As I watched about 30 climbers preparing to tackle another slab of ice, I heard a deafening crack. The climbers scattered in all directions as a huge serac started to break away. Luckily, as abruptly as it had begun to fall, it stopped, coming to rest against another towering column of ice. It was another reminder of the perils of the climb. That event was enough to convince dozens to return to base camp. Greg and I, on the other hand, headed down into that same small ice valley and made our way past the teetering slab of ice. Our pace increased substantially as we passed under it.

At the bottom of the Western Cwm, we queued up behind twenty climbers, ready to take our turn on the ladders. Many people were struggling to connect to the safety line, and others nearly toppled off the ladders. I wondered how much preparation they’d done, and who was running the companies they were climbing with. Kenton had warned us of rogue organisations that would take anyone who had enough cash.

To understand the ladder-climb, imagine five ladders tied together, end to end. The Khumbu Icefall, being a glacier, is continually moving down the valley, and also away from the base of the ice face, forming a large, deep crevasse between the ice wall and the Icefall. As the glacier moves away, the ladders drop lower, and additional ladders are added to increase the height. By the time we departed, two more had been added to the initial five.

After reaching the top of the Western Cwm, I commenced my journey to Camp One, where I encountered more ladders, stretching across what appeared to be bottomless crevasses. There are various ways you can die if you fell into a crevasse. There is death through injury from the plunge, or you might survive the fall but freeze to death. Some people suffocate, jammed between the walls of the crevasse.

We criss-crossed the valley as we made our way to Camp One, over crevasses that consisted of no less than five ladders. Old Jack arrived three hours later, exhausted and full of excuses. Once Jack had refuelled, it was time to return to base camp, meaning a fourth trek through the Icefalls. There was greater risk in the afternoon, as the ice had now been exposed to the sun.

Finally, we spent a night at Camp One and then continued to Camp Two, before returning to base camp. The trip to Camp Two meant more crevasses. I was now proficient at balancing on ladders, but just as my confidence levels were rising, I was dealt another cruel blow.

The Lhotse Face is approximately one hour away from Camp Two and is an imposing slope, standing at an impressive 8516 metres. Our pace decreased due to the altitude, but we pushed on.

Once on the Lhotse Face I attached my ascending device to a rope, which enabled me to hook into the safety line. If I should lose my footing it would immediately lock to the rope with its angular teeth and prevent me from falling. At times there were more than 30 climbers pulling on the rope, which was of great concern when you consider the breaking-point of the nylon cord. The angle of the face varied from 40 to 50 degrees, and in some spots it was near vertical.

It took four hours to reach Camp Three. From here on, we had to prepare our own meals, melt snow for water and maintain the tents. We remained with Kenton for a short period of time before returning to Camp Two, where we acclimatised for two days before heading back to Camp Three for an overnight stay.

Our tents were perched on a ledge that had been carved out by the Sherpas. If you stepped off the ledge you’d be on a 40- to 50-degree ice slope. It was getting late in the afternoon and the chill factor had ramped up. The cold made it hard to sleep; the wind howled all night, trying to force its way into our tent. Even Kenton said it was one of the coldest nights he’d experienced.

As morning approached, I left the comfort of my sleeping bag to get dressed and noticed the roof of my tent was lined with ice. The tops of our sleeping bags were wet – it was a miserable environment. I wore one layer of gloves, which protected my skin but were thin enough that I could move my fingers. However, they gave limited protection from the cold. It was a slow and meticulous trip back down the Lhotse Face, as heavy snow covered everything.

As I was making my way along the Western Cwm when the fingers on my right hand began to ache. Within fifteen minutes it felt like I had jammed them in a door. I removed my right glove and saw that my thumb and two neighbouring fingers were unusually white. I squeezed them and they felt strangely hard; that’s when I knew I had frostbite.

The doctor gave me a treatment plan while our Sherpas conducted their own examination and assured me there was nothing to worry about. They did turn a shade of black, which excited everyone except me, but the circulation was improving and I was getting more feeling back. I soaked them three times a day in warm salt water – a recommendation from our Sirdar Sherpa, Nima. Some doctors urged me to seek a lower altitude, but I relied on the advice of the Sherpas – after all, they were the experts.

On Wednesday, 4 May there was a massive avalanche at Camp One with 60 to 70 tents destroyed. A barrage of hard ice, rocks and boulders the size of fridges approached from the Everest side and swept across the Western Cwm, stopping at the base of Nuptse. Climbers had to scramble from their tents and were blown off their feet by the wind and debris that pummelled them. Most had limited clothing on, and some were without boots. I was lucky not to have been there that day. Thankfully no one was killed, but nine people were badly injured and two had to be carried out on stretchers.

We returned to base camp. Due to the avalanche, the mountain was closed for a few days, which was a huge blow, given I hadn’t been at altitude for a number of days thanks to the frostbite.

On Friday, 6 May at 5 am, I snuck out for some much-needed acclimatisation. I tiptoed past the other tents, grabbed a few snacks and walked the first 50 metres without crampons so I wouldn’t make any noise. I had the entire mountain to myself, and was so caught up in the moment, I didn’t stop to consider how irresponsible I was being. I traversed various ladders and experienced one of the best days, weather-wise; there was no wind, just blue sky with the magnificent sun beating down on me as I arrived at Camp One. Rocks and blocks of ice from the avalanche still covered the area where our camp had once been. The site was unrecognisable; it was a miracle no one had died.

I made it to Camp Two safely and then returned to base camp with my crampons hidden in my backpack; no one was the wiser. Given the success of my secret trip, I repeated it the next day.

As the weather reports improved, base camp again filled with climbing teams. I had now been through the Icefalls twelve times and was confident with my fitness. But I still had to manage the frostbite and I was losing weight fast. I’d weighed 75 kilograms when I arrived; I was now 65.

We received exciting news: there was a window of opportunity to start our summit attempt for 17 May, which gave us a week to prepare. I was hoping to be back in Australia by 4 June for my daughter Caroline’s 21st birthday – my reputation was already poor, having missed my other children’s 16th and 18th celebrations earlier that year. But as the summit date neared, the weather refused to turn and the window closed.

We’d been at base camp since 8 April, and tiredness, food, sickness and delays fuelled our growing frustration. By 14 May, the second anniversary of Paul Carr’s death, we were in a sombre mood. We shared a drink in his honour and reflected on why we were there. His memory spurred us on – there was no way we’d quit. We vowed to stay positive and take all challenges, delays and obstacles head-on, just as he would have done.

The forecast was looking good for an attempt on or around 20 and 21 May. My hike to Camp Two wasn’t the best, but we still beat our previous time by an hour. I was coming down with another cold, while old Jack’s negativity was becoming unbearable.

We departed Camp Two and headed up the Lhotse Face for the third time. My throat was sore and I lost my voice again, but I was loving the experience.

On 20 May we continued up the Lhotse Face and traversed across to the Yellow Band to the Geneva Spur. I was on oxygen, and wore a high-altitude jacket and pants, two layers of clothing, two pairs of socks, inner boots and my heavy outer boots with crampons attached. My head was protected by a balaclava, sunglasses, the hood of my jacket and layers of sunscreen. I may have looked the part, but I was struggling.

Two hours in, at 7600 metres, I found Kenton talking on the radio. As we were about pass him, he asked us to stop. It was a beautiful clear day and we could see the spin-drift blowing off the top of Everest – we were so close. But to my utter frustration, Kenton turned us around. He’d received word that the weather was about to deteriorate.

There was no way I’d be home in time for Caroline’s 21st now. We were told the weather would be unsuitable for the next four days, so I took the opportunity to return to base camp, as my physical condition was rapidly declining.

The weather remained poor, and the windows to climb were slamming shut each day, meaning around 130 hopefuls would likely be trying to summit at the same time. Nothing was guaranteed; the weather we were experiencing hadn’t been seen in 25 years.

The news was getting worse, with reports the Icefalls were melting and may be closed, which would bring the climbing season to an early end. We received word that eight climbers had died on the north side and two were missing, which put everyone on edge.

Greg and Nick were suffering from various illnesses and Greg ended up on a drip. That afternoon, Greg and I filmed farewells to our families in case a tragedy occurred. It was a difficult thing to do, and hard to know where to begin; what do you say? It took me five takes before I was happy with the result, but even then, I knew Jann and the kids would probably find it underwhelming and emotionless – very on brand for me.

That night we had a very quiet dinner – well, quiet except for old Jack’s constant complaining – and had an early night. We planned to leave camp at first light, hoping to beat the expected rush to the top.

With breakfast done, we headed to the Icefalls – my fifteenth time through. Pema was my high-altitude Sherpa and I was determined not to disappoint him. There were already hundreds of other climbers on the mountain, causing traffic jams at every ladder. At the base of the Western Cwm, we had 40 people in front of us, with one of the ladders almost out of action as it was on a slight angle. Greg and I took a calculated risk and jumped on the angled ladder, seizing the chance to jump ahead.

We made it to Camp Two in four and a half hours, two hours quicker than our previous attempts. Again, my physical condition deteriorated quickly as we ascended, but I stayed mentally positive.

We remained at Camp Two for two days, as our Sherpas were concerned about the weather. There were approximately 110 mountaineers waiting to summit. On 29 May we headed to Camp Three and up the Lhotse Face for the fourth time. Old Jack pulled out and headed back to base camp. We arrived at Camp Three in good time, but I was having trouble breathing. Kenton placed me on oxygen and contacted base camp to tell them I would be returning unless I improved. I feared my summit attempt was all but over, and the thought of failure was torturous.

The next morning when Kenton came to assess me I gave him a confident thumbs-up. While he saw this as a good sign, I was actually feeling like utter shit. Kenton was a lovely guy, but didn’t know me as well as Greg, who could see I wasn’t well. Despite my condition, I put on a brave face and was eventually cleared to leave Camp Three. It was another tough day – the physical effort was something I’d never experienced. As I walked up the Lhotse Face I counted 30 steps, stopped for fifteen seconds, then did another 30 steps. I repeated that pattern until I reached the famous Yellow Band – a distinctive feature of sedimentary rock that we had to traverse. It’s the first rock you actually touch on Everest. After the Yellow Band we had to cross the Geneva Spur, which is a saddle between Everest and Lhotse. It’s a gruelling climb with a 70-degree incline. Once we reached the top of the large rock buttress on the Geneva Spur, I stood on the South Col at an altitude of 7906 metres, just short of what’s called the ‘death zone’ at 8000 metres.

Four hundred metres on, I found the security of my tent, but that night was cramped as we had to fit three people in: Pema, Greg and me. Pema developed a chest infection and needed sleep and medication. He’d summited Everest on three occasions, but was in danger of missing this one.

At 9.30 pm we departed again. We’d been up since 6 am, and were told it could take between eleven and thirteen hours to reach the summit. I left the tent and saw lights from the headlamps of some climbers who had already begun. I took a deep breath and put my final layer of gloves on, then followed Pema and Kenton. The wind was so strong, I had to lean into it to avoid being thrust backwards – I was only 60 kilograms wringing wet by that stage. We left the South Col and started the long haul up to a spot called The Balcony, and while it wasn’t overly steep, it’s a continual incline that takes a couple of hours to complete.

Kenton was powering ahead, and his momentum spurred me on. Before long, I was passing climbers who were resting in the snow. I concentrated on every step, and tried to stay positive and in the moment. As I pushed on, I came across a person lying in the snow. As I got closer, I realised it was Kenton. He was holding his head, and I could see his face was covered with blood. He told me a rock had been dislodged by climbers above and had hit him in the head. I compressed the wound with my hands, and eventually the bleeding stopped, but it was clear he’d need stitches. I selfishly feared I would have to escort him back down to Camp Four, and thus forgo my summit attempt. As ashamed as I am to admit it, I was thinking more about myself than Kenton in that moment. I offered to take him back down for medical treatment, but to my surprise he leapt to his feet, brushed me aside and charged up the mountain. All that was left behind was a patch of red-stained snow.

My goggles started to fog up so I removed them, which was a rookie mistake. I began having trouble focusing when I looked to the left, where the wind was coming from. When I covered my right eye with my hand, I couldn’t see at all. I started to panic, and realised I had suffered frostnip to my left eye.

A cluster of exhausted climbers sat on The Balcony, trying to recover before their next push up the mountain. Greg was waiting for his Sherpa to deliver a new oxygen bottle, as his was now empty, and his feet were getting dangerously cold. The wind was howling, and I was convinced there was no way we could continue. Some climbers were lying in the snow, and I knew it would be difficult for them to get back up. Not wanting to allow my body to shut down, I began marching on the spot. Suddenly Kenton yelled, ‘Let’s go! Follow me!’ and without hesitation, I put my head down and started walking, with Pema directly behind me. I don’t remember much of the journey; I was just focused on my steps. My conscious mind switched off as we trudged along for another two hours.

When the sun came up, the highest mountain in the world was right on my doorstep. Pema and I were making good progress, and I could see Greg and Nick just behind us. At 6 am, I heard Kenton on the radio informing base camp that he had summited. The news gave me a huge thrill. We were so close to realising our dream and conquering Everest in Paul’s memory.

We reached the Cornice Traverse – a horizontal face of snow and rock – and had to wait for others to complete the crossing. The top was relatively flat, and I was surprised to see so many climbers lying down there. It was difficult to get past them; we had to detach from the safety line and straddle the prone bodies. I had to fight the impulse to join them – it felt like the perfect place to stop. As I got past the last climber, I stopped and started to lower myself to the ground, but Pema screamed, ‘No!’ He knew if I lay down, my body would shut down. I bounced back to a standing position and had a drink – I realised I hadn’t had liquids for seven hours.

At last, the summit was finally within reach. We were now sitting above the clouds, and the wind had died down. I looked ahead and saw Kenton approaching on his descent. He had a smile from ear to ear, and encouraged us to keep going, assuring us we’d be at the top soon. I felt a boost of much-needed energy. I could see the top of the mountain, and slowly walked up one final slope. As I edged closer, I could see the top starting to flatten out. I told myself, Keep your head down and just keep walking, and you’ll get there!

On top of the South Summit, at an altitude of 8749 metres, the only thing between me and the top of the world was a narrow ridge line separating Tibet and Nepal. Beyond that is the famous Hillary Step – a 12-metre near-vertical rock face that leads to the top of Everest. Although I was so close to the ultimate goal, it still took another two hours to get there, as there were eight other climbers making their way across the ridge line. It can take climbers between two and fifteen minutes to climb the step, which meant Pema and I could have been standing there for more than an hour. The ridge line was only a metre wide in some spots, with a thousand-metre drop on either side.

At the base of the Hillary Step, I started my climb. I took small steps, attempting to place my crampons in hard ice or a small section of exposed rock, but I got twisted up and my oxygen tube detached from the bottle. I could hear the air spewing out, and the tube was flapping around like a cut snake.

Pema was yelling, ‘Go! Go! Go!’ but there was nothing I could do, as I hadn’t even reached the most difficult spot. I had a large boulder protruding in front of me, and with my height disadvantage it was a difficult obstacle to get around. I looked down and stared at the vast drop below. Either my legs weren’t long enough, or my high-altitude suit had restricted my flexibility. I tried to move my left leg around the rock to find something to grip onto without success. I grabbed some old safety lines, tested their strength and swung my body around the boulder, then found something to latch onto on the other side and scrambled to safety. The eight climbers we passed never summited – I hope I didn’t put them off with my pathetic display of how not to traverse the Hillary Step.

We continued to the summit, with Pema leading the way. I was tired, but determined to keep up with him. We’d been walking for 30 minutes when Pema stopped and invited me to take the lead, but I refused. Instead, we walked shoulder-to-shoulder to the top.

At 9.40 am on 31 May 2005, I arrived at the final destination, and it was … magnificent. I was the 1683rd person in the world to summit Everest, and it was hard to comprehend the accomplishment, given everything I had been through. I couldn’t stop hugging Pema as we took in the views and came to terms with what we’d just achieved.

Within a short period we were joined by Greg, Nick and their Sherpas. The three members of the Victoria Police Everest Team were finally on the summit together, and I know Paul was there with us too. Greg had been given two items by the Carr family to leave on the summit. One was a book with poems and prayers that Paul’s daughters had made, and the other was a school ribbon that he won.

It was minus 20 degrees and we’d been awake for 28 hours, but nothing could ruin the moment and the sheer joy of being on top of the world. I was exhausted, both physically and emotionally, but couldn’t stop thinking about what I’d have done if I had failed. I knew my family and friends wouldn’t have cared, but failure is something I can never accept and in my line of work, it’s never an option. This was all pressure that I put on myself, and I felt like an emotional wreck.

Although I wanted to stay at the summit with Greg, I had to leave as my fingers were again at risk of frostbite. While I’d hoped our descent would be better than my pathetic ascent, it wasn’t to be. I placed the heels of my boots over the edge of the Hillary Step and let my backside drop, carefully looking over my shoulder at the placement of my feet. Two metres from the bottom, one of my crampons got tangled in an old rope and my body was now lower than my feet. I lost strength in my right hand and my speed increased, and I fell awkwardly.

I stumbled backwards and fell on the ridge with my back teetering into Tibet and my waist and legs in Nepal. Pema yelled ‘Noooo!’ and for those few seconds, I felt like I was on a seesaw in a playground. Below me was a 3000-metre drop. I grabbed the safety line to steady myself, and tried to shimmy my way back into Nepal, only to get my backpack caught on the edge of the ice ridge. With a final effort, I pulled on the safety line and rolled to safety. I looked at Pema, who was in shock; I’d had a very close brush with death.

We found Kenton sitting on some ice with a small esky full of beer and soft drinks – we were saved! We shared a drink in celebration before we completed the last hundred metres as a team. We were met with a round of applause from our base camp team, who’d been anticipating our arrival.

Eighty climbers attempted to summit Mount Everest that day, and only 25 made it. I weighed less than 60 kilograms, had frostbite to three digits, blurred vision in my left eye and no voice, but I wouldn’t have traded it for the world.

16

THE ETERNAL MOUNTAIN

Despite the trials and tribulations of conquering Mount Everest, the Seven Summit Challenge was still in my sights. My next target was Mount Elbrus in Russia. Four of us would be going – Greg, his partner, Tracey, and Steve, who we had climbed with in Argentina.

After five months of training and preparation and a lot of organising, including securing visas for the remote part of Southern Russia, which turned out to be extremely hard to get, we were on our way.

Mount Elbrus is the highest peak in Europe and is situated in the Caucasus – a mountain range north of the Black Sea that separates Georgia and Russia. Elbrus comprises two main peaks: the Western Peak at 5642 metres, and the Eastern Peak at 5621 metres. I wasn’t concerned with the Eastern Peak; I wanted to climb the highest one. Aside from the challenge of actually climbing the mountain, there were a few other concerns about the trip due to the border conflict between Russia and Georgia at the time.

We arrived in Moscow on 1 July 2006, and commenced the trip to Southern Russia. Little did we know that climbing the mountain would be easy compared to the other troubles we were about to have. We had all the appropriate visas, passports and travel documentation, but those things meant very little in the end.

We checked in with Siberia Airlines at the domestic terminal, and were immediately charged with excess luggage, even though our weight was under the approved limit. No amount of arguing was going to change their mind, and we were charged $50 USD. Prior to entering the departure lounge we went through the normal security screening process, plus additional full-body pat-downs. On the flight, Greg happened to sit next to a Russian man who was also heading to Elbrus. His name was Killian, and he spoke very good English. He was keen to join us for the trip from the airport to the local town near Elbrus, which was a four-hour drive.

Killian’s girlfriend had organised a minibus to transport us, but Killian, unhappy with the price, arranged a deal with a different driver. The next minute we found ourselves in a minibus, surrounded by angry drivers and very large men in black suits. It was probably a good thing we couldn’t speak or understand Russian.

When the driver started the bus, he hurled a string of insults our way (according to Killian). Just 400 metres into the trip, we were stopped at a police checkpoint at the airport car park, and all our passports and travel documents were confiscated. We had no doubt the driver was in on this. Greg and I tried to approach the police, only to be blocked at the door. After much discussion with the driver and police, Killian informed us that we didn’t have the appropriate visas for this area and had to pay $25 USD each to get through.

Naturally, we tried to tell them we were also police, just from another country, but that backfired, resulting in an additional $5 USD fee, meaning we now had to come up with $30 USD each. Left with no choice, we handed $120 USD to the driver, who delivered it to the guard post. When he returned a short time later with our documentation, we asked him for a receipt or the appropriate stamps on our registration papers, and received a stern ‘Nyet’ in response. To me, it wasn’t the money but more the principle. I started to wonder how many more times this would happen to us along the way.

We barely survived the horrific bus ride along wet, slippery and winding roads with a driver who insisted on braking hard as he turned every corner on the wrong side of the road. Killian had phoned ahead to a small village called Cheget, which would be our base prior to and after climbing Elbrus. The family who owned the premises where we’d be staying were extremely friendly, and provided us with great food and comfortable accommodation.

The town was at a low altitude of just 2000 metres, so we needed to do some acclimatisation training. While some say Elbrus isn’t a high or hard mountain to climb, five climbers died trying to summit in 2021. Nineteen climbers were at an altitude of more than 5000 metres – remembering that Everest base camp is close to 5500 metres – when a snowstorm hit. One climber was feeling ill and decided to turn around. Her condition rapidly deteriorated, and she died in her guide’s arms. The rest of the group continued on, but there was a sharp drop in pressure and the wind began to blow up from below, with visibility dropping to half a metre. One climber broke his leg while descending, while another two froze to death. Two others lost consciousness and had to be carried to the Garabashi station, located at 3900 metres. They never regained consciousness. Of those that made it to safety, eleven suffered moderate frostbite, others had severe frostbite and only three escaped unharmed. This is not a mountain that should be taken lightly.

After a healthy breakfast with the Russian family, we commenced our first walk to a neighbouring mountain beside the village. Halfway up, we were approached by three men from the military wearing camouflage uniforms and carrying guns. They were accompanied by a very large German shepherd. They seemed angry at us, and the situation became awkward when the dog attempted to rush at us, and its handler slipped over. The dog’s sudden lunge caused him to land on his arse, which brought us great amusement, but them much embarrassment.

Sensing that it was no time to laugh, we straightened up and feigned concern for the man’s welfare. The soldiers asked for our passports and documentation, but we played dumb and pretended we didn’t know what they wanted. Knowing we would have to pay to get our passports back if we handed them over, we ignored their requests and continued pretending we didn’t understand what they were saying. After a couple of minutes, they waved their arms around in frustration, cursed in Russian, and then stormed off.

Over the next few days we completed a number of acclimatisation walks to a location called the Pastukhov Rocks, at 4800 metres. It is not unusual for people to catch the snowcat – a tracked vehicle designed for snow conditions – to this location before heading to the summit, but that seems ridiculous to me. I mean, how serious are you if you need to get a lift part of the way? Besides, I believe that using the snowcat would inhibit your chances of going higher, as the climb becomes more physically demanding from the drop-off point onwards. Steve was beginning to struggle with the acclimatisation walks, either due to his fitness or the conditions, which were a lot colder than he had experienced before. Despite the challenges, he remained positive.

On the fourth day, we were preparing to go for the summit when the weather turned cold and nasty. There were reports that eight climbers had got stuck and had to be rescued. On top of that, all four of us fell ill, most likely from the drinking water. Unfortunately, we couldn’t boil the ice; we had limited petrol for our stoves, which we needed to preserve to cook our food.

On our eventual summit day, we left at 3 am and I quickly got into the mental zone where I just switched off and place one foot in front of the other. The terrain wasn’t difficult or dangerous early on, but it was an ever-increasing gradient that tested the calf muscles. I was constantly turning around to monitor the progress of the other three by observing their headlamps, and could see that they were spread over a distance of about 500 metres.

After an hour, I reached the Pastukhov Rocks but could only see two headlamps close together. Greg told me Steve had turned back, as the cold was really affecting him. He made a wise and safe decision. It was extremely cold and windy, with a large amount of fresh snow covering all our tracks and those made by other climbers ahead of us. It wasn’t long before I had distanced myself further from Greg and Tracey. After six hours the three of us regrouped and stayed together. At 12.05 pm we successfully summited.

When we returned to our accommodation in Cheget, we were informed that the Elbrus pass would not be sufficient registration for our location, and that if we wanted to get on our plane to head home, we would have to pay a permit fee of 300 rubles each and a fine of 1000 rubles, which amounted to $60 USD each. It was one drama after another – we had attempted to register at the police station on the way up, but it was closed.

While in Russia, we realised our travel agent had booked our flights for the wrong days, meaning our Moscow flight was heading to Singapore and Australia before our flight had even left Southern Russia. We made contact with the agent, who assured us that it was all fixed and paid for, and that new tickets were waiting at the domestic airport, Mineralnye Vody. But that’s where another extortion occurred: we had to pay $30 USD each to get back into the car park. We were met by the same guards we had encountered the first time.

We were dropped at the front of the terminal and made our way to the entrance, but as I entered, I saw a number of police looking at us and knew without doubt that we were about to have more issues. As we approached the X-ray machines, we were directed to follow two police officers to another location, without our bags even being checked. We were escorted through a number of doors and down some long hallways before being directed to sit on a bench seat and hand over all our passports and documentation. There were a number of holding cells with people locked up – we were almost in jail. We’d heard that the routine was to keep you apprehended long enough to make you think you’re going to miss your flight – they know most Westerners will pay anything to ensure they board their plane.

We sat there for about twenty minutes while various police officers walked past looking smug; no doubt they were enjoying our vulnerability and discomfort. I decided to flash my Victoria Police badge to see if it would garner a positive response, even though I knew there was a high chance it would be stolen from me as some sort of trophy. If that happened, I would have a hard time explaining to my superiors back home how I’d lost it.

When one of the guards came past I briefly opened the leather wallet with my badge in it, making sure he saw it, but he didn’t stop. Five minutes later, he returned and summoned me to another room. Greg and Tracey stood up to accompany me but were told to sit back down, in no uncertain terms. I started to regret my decision, and wondered if I was about to be sent to Siberia, never to be seen again. I was led into a room where another two senior-ranking police officers waited. One was seated behind a large desk, and no wonder – the man was adorned with so many ribbons and medals on his chest he probably couldn’t stand up. He was very obviously the man in charge. Seated against the opposite wall were three plain-clothed agents, who were extremely intimidating. KGB? I wondered. Maybe I should tell them Greg and Steve were American spies.

The commanding officer rose to his feet, skirted around his desk and walked towards me. He gestured, indicating that he wanted to see my badge, which I produced, saying, ‘Police! Police! Just like you!’ I pointed to myself and then back at him to try and convey a feeling of brotherhood, then opened my arms wide to invite a hug as a warm greeting. The three plain-clothed agents got out of their seats to inspect the badge more closely as I said, ‘Police! Police! From Australia!’ The Russians began talking among themselves, then started laughing. What have I done? I thought. I’m completely fucked!

I feigned a laugh, pretending I understood what was happening and wasn’t intimated, and things started to look more positive. Before I knew it, I was being bear-hugged by the commanding officer. I felt like I was in the middle of a boxing ring having just won a title fight against Rocky Balboa. I was one of them! The commanding officer opened a filing cabinet drawer that contained just one file. In it was all our documentation and passports, which were immediately handed back to me with a smile, a laugh and a pat on the back.

As I approached Greg and Tracey, they looked pale and afraid of what I was going to tell them. To quickly put them at ease, I smiled, gave an enthusiastic thumbs-up and held up the file. We were immediately shown the way to the departure gate with great assistance and friendliness. We would soon be heading to Moscow – or so we thought.

The person at the ticketing counter informed us none of our tickets had been changed, and that one of us needed to travel fifteen minutes to the township of Mineralnye Vody to get new tickets, as they could not be reissued at the airport. I volunteered for the task. Thanks to a kind staff member at Siberia Airlines, I was ushered through all the checkpoints to the township of Mineralnye Vody, grabbed the new tickets and was granted entry back into the airport. We were finally at the end of the queue to board the aircraft.

Physically exhausted, and even more so mentally, we just wanted to get on the plane, but there was another hurdle. Just as we were about to board, we were pulled out of the line by airport staff and taken into separate rooms. They weren’t quite finished tormenting us, and were now insisting we pay them extra for our ‘excess luggage’ – despite the fact we were all 15 kilograms lighter than when we arrived, having eaten all our food on the climb. Airport staff sifted through our belongings and took issue with the amount of clothing and cameras we were all carrying. I could hear Greg in the room next door being less than diplomatic. With the flight about to take off, they had us over a barrel. We were in no position to argue or haggle on price, and they knew it. We paid the money and were finally allowed to leave.

Our trip to Russia was almost over, but it turned out to be the gift that kept on giving. On our last night in Moscow, I will be honest and admit that I drank a little excessively – in fact, I think I tried every drink available, and I paid for it severely for the next month. Over the last three weeks, with limited food, sleep and living at altitude, I had lost a lot of weight, and I should have been more conscious of the effects alcohol would have on my body.

On the plane home, I fell asleep (or passed out) and slept almost the entire journey back to Australia. At no stage did I get up to walk around or stretch, which was critical, given the physical state I was in. Three days after arriving home, I experienced an intense pain in my left calf and had to seek medical attention. An ultrasound revealed I had a massive blood clot in my leg that could have been fatal if left untreated. I had injections to thin my blood, and for the next month, had to self-inject blood thinners every day.

I’ve since learnt that a lot of travellers go on organised tours to Russia, letting their guides deal with the bribes and extortion. While the major cities in Russia are not a problem, as they cater for tourists, I would advise anybody going to the regional areas to be prepared to play the game – but don’t make it easy for them, or they will take everything. That said, despite all the extra payments, our trip cost half the price of one with an organised group. Plus, we gave ourselves an extra four days on the mountain, which the large groups don’t allow for. It was certainly an experience. We successfully overcame all the obstacles and came away with some great stories to tell as a result.

17

TICK, TICK … BOOM!

One foot after the other, almost heel to toe. One misstep, one false move and I knew it could well be the end of me, or potentially some of those close to me. The scene around me looked like a war zone, or the set of a movie after the stunt coordinators and pyrotechnicians had done their best work. But this wasn’t Hollywood, it was rural Victoria, and one of the biggest bombs in the state’s history had just been detonated.

The remains of the bloke who’d triggered the device were splattered all over the yard. I found his waist and legs several metres from his torso and head. The dickhead had been ripped in half. I had never seen anything as gruesome or confronting, but it didn’t shock me so much as intrigue me. I was fascinated with how the blast had dismembered him and sliced him up – almost as if a quarter of his body had been put in a mincer. Deep down, I had always been curious about the level of carnage an explosive vest – or suicide vest, as they’re more commonly known – would inflict on the person wearing it. Sure, I’d seen various depictions of bombs going off in movies, but viewing the scene in person was just surreal.

My role in the chaos was to walk through the field of debris and clear the area so other police and investigators could piece together (no pun intended) exactly what had happened and how we ended up here. It was also imperative that a pathologist could get access, to officially declare the man responsible deceased. Even though it was obvious, protocol is protocol.

If you’re wondering how I ended up in this situation, well, allow me to explain.

‘10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 …’ Another countdown from ten, and another sinister laugh followed from the man on the porch, who was enjoying being the centre of attention while holding the large swarm of police and Special Operations Group officers at bay. When you’re wearing a suicide vest packed with incredibly volatile Powergel sticks and 30 metres of detonator cord, you pretty much get to do whatever the fuck you want. It sounds bad, right? It gets worse. He’d constructed the vest with three initiating switches – one on his chest and one on each of his shoulders. You can imagine just how explosive (sorry, I couldn’t resist) the situation was for us.

For those unaware, which I hope is the majority of readers, Powergel or Senatel, or any other name you can find for it, is a high-strength, robust, detonator-sensitive emulsion explosive. It’s designed to deliver extremely high-energy blast, and is mainly used in tunnelling, shaft sinking and other hardcore blasting. In this case, it could also be used to blow a paranoid 48-year-old ice addict, and anyone close to him, to kingdom come.

Glenn Sanders was an oddball, but there was no doubting his intelligence. A mechanic by trade, he could have easily passed for a qualified engineer, and had achieved some amazing things on his farm, which sat just behind his mother’s house and flanked the township of Derrinallum’s most prominent landmark, Mount Elephant. The estate was approximately 170 acres and had a 175-metre-long driveway on the left, with the houses situated on the right. The property was littered with machinery, sheds, shipping containers and old vehicles.

Townsfolk called Sanders a ‘genius’ because of his ability to help farmers fix just about anything, from heavy-duty machinery to smaller appliances and even vehicles. He made custom Harley ‘Choppers’, and if something was broken, he could always figure out a way to make it work again. He could weld, pour hot metal, and even rig complex explosives. He was, in short, a bit of a problem-solver, but those who spent even a small amount of time with him were always apprehensive, as he’d often spout conspiracy theories, and believed agencies like the CIA and ASIO were out to get him. He claimed they were flying drones over his house to see what he was up to.

Those close to him said he became more paranoid after the loss of his second wife, Shirley, to cancer, while others said he was frequently smoking methamphetamine (ice). He was known to visit Shirley’s grave late at night, and police once received a report of a large explosion from the cemetery, which prompted rumours that Sanders had rigged his late wife’s gravesite with explosives. He had told people that if anyone dug around up there, they’d be in for a nice surprise. In fact, the sound of explosions became common for the people in the town – they all knew the man they affectionately called ‘Colonel Sanders’ was just experimenting; never did they think he was a danger to himself or them.

Sanders’ best friends said he avoided sleep to keep watch over his property 24/7, and used drugs to keep him alert. But most concerning was his constant bragging that he had explosives hidden and booby-traps scattered all over his property, from his bomb-shaped letterbox all the way to the far reaches of his backyard.

The military-grade cannon he’d made was capable of firing large projectiles, and it was confirmed that he’d fired cannonballs at Mount Elephant, and even landed a few on top. He hid sensors in the trees and bushes to alert him when someone was on his property. When he was away from home, he wore an explosive vest and was ready to activate it should he be detained. If he was handcuffed, he could trigger the vest by using his chin to press the shoulder switches. If he was cornered, he could quickly press the switch on his chest. He would often tell people he was ‘going to go out in a big way’.

People reported Sanders’ behaviour to local police, but didn’t feel they were taken seriously. Mental health experts had visited him on numerous occasions, but Sanders had the gift of the gab, and was always able to talk his way out of requiring professional help.

Alongside his driveway next to the garage, there was a giant LPG tank that had been made to look like a missile. He tried to convince some friends it was armed and pointed at the centre of town. As for all the explosives and how he hoarded them – he once had a licence to use explosives, which had been taken from him by the authorities. When he realised he was going to lose it, he started amassing sticks of Powergel, gelignite, charges, detonators, reams of detonator cord and other bits and pieces. Using the machines that farmers brought to him to fix, he dug giant pits in his yard and buried shipping containers underground, which he used as secret storage units. It was said he could bury a shipping container in a matter of hours, such was the speed at which he could work.

The morning before the seven-hour-long siege on his property began, Sanders was up uncharacteristically early. He began his day with a glass of chocolate milk and a few puffs of ice, then strapped on his explosive vest and headed out. Now, walking around town with the vest on was one thing, but going to the local hospital to visit his mum, who was recovering from a leg amputation, was another. Unbeknown to Sanders at the time, the police were watching in response to some alarming reports about his erratic and threatening behaviour.

Police were also responding to a report that Sanders had locked up one of his mates in his garage the day before. According to his friend, Gary Poole, Sanders tricked him into entering a vehicle inspection pit in his workshop and then placed a 44-gallon drum on the entry point, trapping him. He then put numerous LPG cylinders on top. He abused Poole and demanded he tell him why people in town were out to get him, what they were saying about him, and why they called him a paedophile. Sanders soon returned to his residence, leaving Poole in this predicament. It took Poole more than an hour to escape from the pit. When he finally got out, he tracked Sanders down and confronted him. That was when Sanders showed him the explosive vest, to prove he meant business.

While Sanders was a genuine concern, the officers outside the hospital feared that if they tried to detain him, they would force him to trigger the vest, blowing up the hospital and everyone in it. Inside the hospital, Sanders spoke to his mother and gave her a note naming everyone he believed was out to get him. Two police officers followed him inside, but maintained a safe distance. Thankfully, there was no confrontation, and he left around 4 pm. He went to Bunnings and picked up some more bomb-making materials, then drove back home at approximately 6 pm. Not long after, police established a tight cordon around his property and prepared for a showdown that made everyone extremely nervous.

I arrived in Ballarat at about the same time Sanders left his house for the day, and started preparing the relevant bomb response equipment should we be deployed. When he arrived back home, I was 450 metres away, at the command post.

At 6.30 pm the SOG moved in, observed the front of the house and awaited further instructions.

About half an hour later, Sanders strolled out, eyeballed the vehicle in his driveway and immediately hurried back inside for several minutes, before reappearing with a can of drink and a torch. He started to walk towards the police vehicle, and when he got within about 15 metres, an audible boom from the onboard PA rang out ordering him to ‘STOP!’. The officers then told him to back away from the vehicle and take off his shirt. Despite being visibly agitated and erratic, Sanders followed the orders and lifted his shirt to reveal the vest and detonator switches.

‘We need you to slowly remove the vest now,’ the officer asked – this time his tone was more subdued and less threatening, having seen the vest and realised the reality of the situation. Sanders refused to comply. ‘The only way this thing comes off is if it explodes,’ he warned police. It was time for the professional negotiators to take over.

For the next six hours, negotiators engaged Sanders in conversation about his ex-wife, all his crazy conspiracy theories, cars, motorcycles and the various things he fixed.

I had been stood down, and was at a local motel on stand-by. I could tell it was going to be a long night.

‘This will end tonight,’ Sanders declared. Despite his defiance, there was also some trepidation in his voice, and he was constantly seeking comfort and reassurance, saying he was worried ‘it was gonna hurt’. Many at the scene felt like the outcome was inevitable and that nothing would stop Sanders from executing his plan to ‘go out with a bang’. Each time he was asked to disarm and remove the vest, he became edgy and closed off. On more than one occasion, it appeared as though he’d found the courage to hit one of the switches and end the stand-off, asking if he could ‘take three steps back’ because ‘I don’t want to hurt anyone’.

‘10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 …’ As Sanders finished another countdown, police braced for the worst, and those nearest took cover – but again, nothing happened. This time, he sobbed, but on other occasions he laughed. He was always asking for the time, and wanted to know how long he’d been outside. He appeared to be keeping track of time, for a reason that didn’t become apparent until much later.

The clock ticked past 1 am and the siege entered its seventh hour. Working with someone threating to detonate a bomb is extremely stressful, and it takes a hell of a toll. The negotiators had to change over several times in order to stay sharp. Sanders, too, was tired, and sat to rest.

‘What time is it now?’ he asked.

‘It’s almost twenty past one,’ the negotiator replied. Sanders nodded to acknowledge he’d heard.

By 1.19 am, negotiators still hadn’t made any progress, with Sanders still refusing to remove the vest and surrender. Then, right in the middle of a conversation, there was a massive explosion, and night briefly turned into day. It didn’t appear to police that Sanders had done anything to set off a bomb – something else had caused it. As far as 30 kilometres away, the earth shook. A massive fireball rocketed into the sky, and Sanders’ home was obliterated. The sound was extraordinary. A blast of that magnitude was almost impossible to comprehend. Debris and blast fragments pelted the surrounding area and rained down on the property at a frightening velocity. There were other explosions going off all around, and when police finally deemed it was safe to emerge from shelter, Sanders had disappeared.

My phone rang at 2 am. An officer at the scene told me multiple bombs had gone off and the BRU was required as soon as possible. Our motel was approximately 30 minutes away. We hurtled down the Hamilton Highway and arrived to a scene of utter chaos and devastation. Knowing there could be more explosives on the site, we immediately took control and ordered everyone to clear the area.

Unfortunately, three SOG members had been seriously injured in the blast. Two had been positioned behind a brick wall on the eastern side of the house, on standby to make an arrest. The brick wall took the brunt of the impact, saving them from being killed. Still, one of the members took some shrapnel in his helmet and suffered a bad head injury. A third SOG member had been in the armoured vehicle with his head out the window when the house went up, and suffered a blast pressure injury to his eyes. All were rushed to hospital.

Near the command post, a large chunk of railway track iron was found speared into the bitumen road, as if someone with superhuman strength had thrown it from Sanders’ property like a javelin. Its proximity from the house highlighted just how powerful the blast was. Massive pieces of timber were strewn about, making it look like a tornado had just ripped through. Sanders’ house was completely flattened, but his mum’s remained largely undamaged. It was a strange scene, but as one of Sanders’ friends later said, ‘That’s how bloody smart he was – he could set a bomb off and not destroy his mother’s house 30 metres away.’

It was nearing 3 am, and the lack of light made it too dangerous for us to clear the site to make it safe for an investigation to begin. It was obvious Sanders was gone – there was no way anyone could have survived that close to the blast site. It was speculated that he’d set off his explosive vest accidentally. An SOG officer who’d had eyes on Sanders at the exact time of the explosion reported he didn’t do anything to trigger it, and had looked surprised when it went off. His view was that Sanders had got a fright and shrugged his shoulders in an involuntary reaction, and in doing so, accidentally touched one of the shoulder switches with his chin and blown himself up.

While his death at that stage was not confirmed, as that could only be done by a qualified pathologist, it wasn’t really in doubt. When the SOG members in the armoured vehicle turned the spotlight on and started to back down the driveway, they spotted Sanders’ remains scattered all over the place. As much as it pained us, we had to wait until the sun rose before we could begin the clean-up.

I gathered as much information as I could from the uniformed officers at the scene, and what they said gave me reason to believe we were a long way from being able to close this case and head home. We were told to tread extremely carefully on the property, as ‘nothing is what it seems’. Something that appeared safe and normal could be anything but. Friends of Sanders’ had previously told police that fire extinguishers on the property were actually bombs, and that detonator cords had been painted black to disguise them as regular electric cables or irrigation lines running all over the property. It was a daunting proposition, but that was why I was there: to make the crime scene safe for police and other authorities to access it and do their respective jobs.

When the sun finally started to come up and light flooded the sky, things started to get real for me and the other bomb squad members. I knew I couldn’t just stroll onto the property, so I arranged for the Police Air Wing to be brought to the site so I could conduct an aerial reconnaissance and map out everything from above. From the air, it was a remarkable sight. Sanders had laid out the main explosive at the house, and another five around it – but his mother’s house, as mentioned earlier, was completely intact and largely undamaged (save for a few pieces of timber and other fragments that had slammed into the exterior). The information I was able to gather from the air was invaluable, and allowed me to map out a plan of attack when I was back on the ground. I told everyone it was going to be a painstaking task; we would need to slowly clear small areas one by one before allowing anyone else through. While I knew it would take a long time, I didn’t realise just how long until I began.

I notified the officer in charge of the Special Operations Group that I’d need more assistance in the form of at least two extra bomb technicians – such was the size and complexity of the job. We were under so much pressure to clear the scene, but I was concerned that the job could take weeks to complete – and I was right. Further complicating matters, I received a call advising that the exploded house was made with asbestos sheeting, which meant we’d need to set up a decontamination area for when we left the property, and additional breathing apparatus. I also requested an air exclusion zone so we wouldn’t be bothered by media helicopters overhead, as there was the very real chance of more explosions.

It seemed like every hour, new information was coming through. As more and more locals came to the scene following news of the blasts, more information was forthcoming. I was told about the buried shipping containers and bunkers that may be booby trapped. I asked for detailed plans of the property, and building plans for the structures.

At about 8 am the Arson Squad and members from the Forensic Science Laboratory arrived for a briefing. Next, a member from the Professional Standards Command arrived to head up an investigation because, technically, a person had died in police custody. We had an ambulance on standby, as well as the local Country Fire Authority (CFA).

My second-in-charge informed me that a neighbour had made a statement regarding Sanders. He said he saw him two weeks ago and believed Sanders had been high on ice, but said he’d claimed to have access to Powergel, a 10-gram detonating cord, ammonium nitrate and fuel oil – a combination commonly referred as ANFO, which is mainly used for land clearing and tunnelling. Sanders had told the neighbour that the water tank on the hill across the road from his property was full of ANFO, saying that if the tank exploded, half the township of Derrinallum would be destroyed.

Sanders had also said something along the lines of, ‘everything you can see on my property should be approached with caution’. He’d apparently made flame throwers out of fire extinguishers, and the oxyacetylene bottles on his property were ‘not what you might think they are’. He’d mentioned his World War II aerial shell letterbox, saying, ‘if anyone attempted to move it, there would be a big hole created’. He’d also mentioned a timed device linked to a phone, which was primed to detonate in twelve months’ time, and other devices located inside old dairy farm milk churns on top of quarter-inch steel plates. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing; the whole place was a tinderbox.

I was seriously concerned that this bloke was more than a few steps ahead of us and had planned this whole drama. Did he intend to lure us in and blow us all to kingdom come, as a final ‘fuck you!’ after his death? I directed the Superintendent to move the command post back to about a kilometre away from the property. As we walked along the Hamilton Highway from the front gate to the command post, we placed bright road cones next to what we believed to be debris from the blast, which was now evidence, so no one would drive over it. Each fragment had to be collected by crime scene investigators. We also checked the property on the other side of the road and subsequently cleared it. The Metropolitan Fire Brigade arrived with a drone so we could get a better view of the driveway and locate the body of the deceased, but unfortunately, due to windy conditions, the drone proved unsuccessful.

I received further information that the huge hay shed in the front yard may contain explosives and stolen property hidden inside the bundles of hay.

As the saying goes, this job really was the ‘gift that kept on giving’. In my bomb suit and full of nerves, knowing that one misstep could be the end of me, I moved onto the property looking for any signs of explosives, wires, cords or switches. Running through my mind the whole time were the stories of Sanders’ intelligence and genius, and how he was determined to keep people off his land. I had to think outside the square, and look for clues that could lead to a bomb or device.

One foot after the other, I slowly edged down the driveway. As I passed the trees along the pathway, I saw sensors aimed in my direction, and wires running down the trunks and into the ground. Each time I discovered something like that, I’d call an immediate halt, and we’d bring in our equipment and blow it up. Using a small explosive to blow up another explosive or suspected explosive is common practice. Unlike in the movies, where the main character has to choose whether to cut the red wire or the blue wire to defuse the bomb, the professionals approach it very differently, and we try to avoid the drama. While I could easily defuse a bomb with a pair of pliers and some other special tools, our protocol is to blow up anything suspicious with another explosive to eliminate the chance of human error. It’s cleaner, safer and a lot quicker. There’s no place for heroes in my line of work.

Every step I took, I was worried I would step on a booby trap, snag a trip-wire or simply be in the wrong place at the wrong time if one of Sanders’ timed devices suddenly went off. It was so hot in that bomb suit, and I knew I would be in it for hours that day – and, in fact, that week, or even longer. I looked to my left and saw some disturbed earth, and called in the team to set a small charge. Sure enough, it was a small explosive buried just beneath the surface of the soil.

Eventually, two additional bomb technicians arrived to help with our initial objective: to make the area safe up to where the deceased was located. As I walked up the driveway, I noticed a number of early warning sensors in the trees, and realised those sensors would have alerted Sanders of the SOG’s arrival all those hours ago.

I continued edging slowly along the path. Up ahead, I could make out a boot and a leg. I had found Sanders – well, some of him. It was an extremely gory scene. The force of the explosion had separated his upper torso and lower body by approximately seven metres, with other smaller remains strewn in-between. I had never seen anything like it.

Affording him as much dignity and respect as possible, I used a number of plastic sheets to cover Sanders, and secured them with rocks from the garden to stop them from blowing away. Being a crime scene, it was important that I did not move or touch the deceased until the pathologist had completed an examination. I was also mindful of rumours that he had hundreds of detonators, and that some were supposedly in a bra and clothing that he was known to wear. Detonators are sensitive to three things: heat, shock and friction. If you stand on a detonator, you are most likely to lose half your foot, even though they only contain .8 of a gram of explosive material.

Arriving back at the command post, I was informed that a neighbouring house also needed to be searched, as the owner could not be located. The house was approximately 500 metres away from Sanders’ property. The search team was continually finding suspicious items that we had to check. There was suspect irrigation tubing running through the front yard, which could contain explosives. By 4 pm, a path had been cleared that would hopefully allow for the pathologist to attend and officially state that Sanders was deceased.

The following day there were reports from locals that Sanders had been seen walking around town overnight. I thought to myself, There must be something strange in the water here. The pressure was on me and my team to clear the scene and give the investigators the go-ahead to collect evidence, take photos and wrap up the case so the town could return to normal and everyone could move on. I politely reminded the locals that we knew who the offender was, there were no other offenders, and he wasn’t going anywhere!

A member of the Homicide Squad sat down with Sanders’ mother and informed her of his death. His mother revealed further information about where more explosives may be hidden, and claimed that there was $250,000 in cash hidden on the property – although she didn’t know where exactly. Investigators checked with the local bank, and it was confirmed that Sanders had recently made a large withdrawal from his account.

The CFA supplied a large boom lift, which extended to a height of 30 metres. This gave us an amazing overview of the property, and allowed us to take more photographs. As a result, we were able to clear the entire front yard and the mother’s house.

On the third day, the pathologist, arson chemist and photographer arrived for the examination and removal of the body. I made the initial approach with another BRU member, who helped me carefully remove the plastic sheets off the deceased. After three days under heavy plastic, it was not a pleasant sight or smell – but the task had to be completed. The three specialists were briefed on where they could walk and stand, and where not to go. ‘Stay on the driveway at all times!’ I ordered. Photographs were taken, and the pathologist recorded the time of death, which seemed weird, as it had happened more than 72 hours ago.

They all had to move off the property while I turned the deceased over and searched his pockets and clothing to make sure there were no more detonators, explosives or anything under his hips, legs and upper torso. After more photos and careful examination, the body was removed. A coroner’s vehicle was parked at the end of the driveway and the other BRU member and I lifted the deceased into three different body bags and carried them to the waiting vehicle. The following day I had the CFA attend with one of their trucks, and used a strong cannon of water to hose the driveway down, as it was now a biological hazard.

In all, I spent 23 days clearing that property. Just three of those days were rest days, and the others were more than twelve hours long, on average. Eventually, I determined that there were seven individual devices that had all been joined together – the eighth device was the explosive vest worn by Sanders. These seven devices were spread throughout the residential area of the property. One was inside a buried 40-foot shipping container, which we removed with an excavator, another in a vehicle storage shed, two in a major machinery shed that contained a mechanics pit, one at the rear door of the premises, another hidden under the front door of the premises and another in his garage with the front wheel of his vehicle parked on it. When we removed that vehicle, we located a number of detonators on the ground, waiting to be stepped on.

Every piece of equipment and item of clothing on the premises was checked, and we found explosives in the pockets of various pieces of clothing. Building rubble was removed and explosives located underneath. We found a large plate of steel that looked like a trapdoor, and used a counter charge to create a hole in the plate. Closer inspection of the hole revealed that a number of fifty-dollar notes had been welded into the plate, making it look like a homemade safe. When it was opened, it was found to contain a total of $200,000 cash – the rumours were true.

We found Sanders’ homemade cannon – the one we’d been told he used to fire large steel balls, three-quarters the size of a bowling ball, over the Hamilton Highway to the top of Mount Elephant, which was approximately 380 metres high and 1.5 kilometres away.

During the search and clearing of the property, everything I touched had the potential to explode. I had never experienced anything like it before. Imagine every day for three weeks being so on edge that every day felt like it could be your last. It also became clear, through our investigation, that Sanders was repeatedly asking for the time during the stand-off because he had rigged the main device to a clock, and had set it to detonate at a particular time. He thought he knew when it was due to go off, but hadn’t accounted for daylight saving and it went off an hour before he was expecting.

Explosives aside, we also encountered a major asbestos issue. By the end of our operation, we had completely turned the residential area (except for the mother’s house) upside down, to the point where only bare earth remained. We had made four large piles: steel, timber, other building materials, and clothing and personal items. We could not afford to leave anything behind that could cause harm in the future. On leaving the property, we fired twenty-four counter charges.

But clearing the property was just one of many tasks that had to be completed. Mail addressed to Sanders was constantly arriving at the local post office, and we had to open and check each item for anything suspicious or dangerous. We also had to check and clear Sanders’ ex-wife’s gravesite, because the locals were concerned the area might be booby trapped.

During all my time in the BRU, I have only been disappointed on a few occasions, and the worst of those was in the aftermath of the Derrinallum operation. Once the job was finalised and all investigations were complete, with all evidence and findings submitted at the Coroners Court, a medal presentation was to be conducted, which would include service medals, certificates and other honours to be bestowed on members for their actions and bravery throughout the year.

I was told that members of the SOG and other departments involved in the Derrinallum operation would receive medals for their involvement, and was urged to submit a report about the job the BRU performed and how vital and dangerous it was. I submitted a 26-page report, only to have it promptly returned with a note advising me that only a one-page Issue Cover Sheet was required. As you can imagine, this made it a limited and brief report.

Prior to the day of the presentations, I was made aware of the outcomes and what the members of the BRU would receive. I am sincere when I say that all the members of the SOG and other departments who received medals and thanks were deserving, and I congratulate them on their achievements and service. But the members of the BRU had worked just as hard, and performed a dangerous task every day for three weeks, working in an asbestos laden environment, with hidden live explosives scattered all around and unknown chemicals displaced among the debris. There was every chance one or all of us could have been killed or seriously injured. The mental strain was also significant, but at no time did I ever hear a complaint, and at no point did anyone fail to complete a task to perfection. Despite this, it had been decided that the BRU deserved less recognition. Upon receiving this news, I confronted a senior member who sat on the panel and was told there was no arguing the decision, and that it was final. It was a baffling decision, and I still don’t understand it.

18

WORKING WITH DEAD PEOPLE

‘You’ve got to be joking!’ I said to the police officer on the other end of the line. ‘Can you please repeat that?’ I had received hundreds of calls requesting the assistance of the Bomb Response Unit over my 31 years as a bomb technician, so it was rare for me to be shocked by any request, but this one was different.

I had been upgraded to the position of Acting Senior Sergeant at the time, as the incumbent was on annual leave. I took a call at 8.30 pm on a Tuesday from D24, the then Victoria Police radio dispatch centre, requesting our assistance at a major crime scene outside the Little Stars Child Care and Early Learning Centre, which was located right beside the Endeavour Hills Police Station. One Federal Police Officer and one Victoria Police Officer had been stabbed, and the offender shot and killed. What made this call particularly terrifying was the suggestion that the incident was an ‘act of terrorism’.

There were concerns that the offender’s vehicle contained explosives, and that he was rigged up with a suicide vest. The dead man had a history of making pipe bombs in his backyard, which raised the level of concern significantly. When I was connected to the officer in charge at the scene, I ordered him to evacuate the surrounding area and establish cordons until I arrived with my team. Given the gravity of the situation, I requested additional support from other units, including Explosive Detection Dogs (EDDs). It was paramount that we had the most advanced equipment and tools available in order to achieve a successful outcome with no loss of human life, injury or damage to property.

The detector dogs were trained to identify certain explosive odours, including various explosive powders used in ammunition. The BRU always had a perfect working relationship with this specialist unit, and we were constantly conducting searches with the dog squad when visiting VIPs came to the city, including members of the royal family, presidents and other important dignitaries, as well as all the more common tasks, like executing search warrants on criminals’ dwellings or hide-outs. However, we had a problem when deploying the canines from the dog squad, especially when entering a possible hostile environment containing booby traps and IEDs. We were allowing the dog handlers to enter dangerous locations, and sometimes had to put them in bomb suits, with the possibility of activating a device. So, what was the solution? Did we train the handlers to become quasi-bomb technicians, or did we train BRU members to handle the dogs? Either way, something had to change.

After much deliberation, it was decided that training the BRU to handle the dogs was the easiest and safest option. With the assistance of the dog squad members, we selected the most suitable members of the BRU – those that had the right attributes. Then we had to select the right breed of dog, and a veteran dog handler to help train the BRU members. We elected to go with a Belgian Malinois or Belgian Shepherd, which were already in service with the Special Operations Group as siege dogs. They look very much like German shepherds and are known for their loyal nature, intelligence, ease to train and strong work ethic. These dogs were trained to identify several explosive materials or compounds associated with those materials. Training them involved positive reinforcement when they identified a particular odour. When the dogs identify something of concern, they’re trained to sit next to the object or area, and not to touch it. You may see the same action from the sniffer dogs at the airport; the detector dogs there will sit if they find something suspicious in someone’s luggage.

It had been 50 minutes since that first phone call when I arrived at the scene. The scene was hectic, with numerous police vehicles and members gathered around. This was a major incident, with numerous specialist units waiting to conduct their component of the investigation. My mind was racing, as there was a lot to do and organise to ensure everyone was safe. As the Senior Sergeant in charge of the BRU at the time, and with a suspicious device or devices on the scene, the responsibility to take charge of the situation fell to me.

Adding to the chaos was the fact that there was an evacuated police station next door, and all the members from inside had now poured out onto the street. As one of my team members commented, ‘the whole police fucking force is here!’ It made for a chaotic environment with a lot of pressure.

My team was given a general briefing while I located the sergeant, who directed my attention to the deceased’s vehicle, which contained the suspected explosives. When I saw the location of the vehicle, I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. There were a hundred or so police in close proximity, including us. I had no idea how big the explosives were, what sort of damage could be inflicted should the device inside the car be triggered, or if it had been set to detonate via a timer. I told my unit to get everyone back, and to move to a petrol station on the other side of the main road. Given that we were dealing with a potential bomb, it might sound odd that I had moved everyone to a petrol station, but it was a very wide road with two lanes each way, separated by a large median strip – so believe me, it was safe!

Trying to evacuate that many people was not easy. In the end I had to stand on a small elevated position to get everyone’s attention and make an announcement.

‘Everybody listen up!’ I yelled in the most commanding voice I could muster. ‘I am from the Bomb Response Unit and we have been requested to attend because of that vehicle over there. We have been told it may contain explosives or an explosive device. So, right now, we are all standing way too close to it, and we are all in danger! We need at least 100 metres of protection, so if you need to be here, move to the petrol station. If you don’t need to be here, please leave immediately, as you are of no use and could be impeding this operation. This is no place for bystanders or sticky beaks, this is a major crime scene that is not yet secure. If you have not seen the BRU operate before, our tasks can take four to five hours to complete, so I suggest you move your vehicles now or this is where they will remain until we have cleared the scene. We appreciate your assistance. If you have any issues, please come and see me!’

My speech had the desired effect, as the crowd began to disperse and clear out. The next issue was to manage the media. I gave them a 200-metre buffer much further down the road, away from the new command post at the petrol station.

Information started to come through that the deceased was 18-year-old Abdul Numan Haider. Federal and state police had been wanting to speak to him due to concerns about his behaviour. They had been monitoring his activities and observed a rapid escalation of radicalism. Haider lived in the outer Melbourne suburb of Narre Warren and was of Afghan descent. He’d had his passport cancelled, along with approximately 40 other Australian citizens, as there were concerns that they may join the Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant. Keen to discuss the cancellation of his passport, Haider had tried to organise a meeting with police at a local McDonald’s. The location of the meeting was later changed to the Endeavour Hills Police Station, as officers were suspicious as to why he wanted to meet in a McDonald’s. They feared his intention was to send a message by making a scene in a public place.

The two police officers – one from the Federal Police and one from Victoria Police – had approached Haider out the front of the child care centre car park. From initial accounts, his demeanour was not threatening, but without warning, he produced a knife and slashed the Victoria Police member across the arm and then attacked the Federal Police member by stabbing him in the chest and face. He then climbed on top of the man and began stabbing him numerous times. The Victoria Police member drew his gun and shot Haider in the head.

Coroner John Olle did not criticise the officers during the inquest, saying, ‘On the available information, there is no reasonable basis to believe that Numan had intent to carry out an edged-weapon attack [during the meeting] … Numan exhibited no signs of imminent danger, he displayed no level of agitation, no change in posture, no defensive stance, no verbal indicators … Given the ferocity and speed of the attack, support officers would have unlikely altered the outcome.’

We moved in to check Haider and his vehicle, carefully searching every inch of both and relaying information back to the Crime Scene investigators, Homicide Squad detectives and the Joint Counter-Terrorism Team. We located a number of items, including a power adaptor, an iPhone charger, an iPhone, a folded ISIS flag, a wallet and two knives. One knife was located in the right hand of the deceased, and the second knife was in a scabbard in his waistband. There were no explosives, and the scene was safe to hand over. We had been at the crime scene for four and a half hours.

It wasn’t the first time I’d been called to complete a bomb clearance with a deceased person beside me. I had attended many suicides where there were suspicious items nearby, or dodgy implements that had been used to end a life. In these circumstances, there’s a different level of pressure because of the urgency to get to the body for various reasons. There’s the family of the deceased, who want the body viewed and assessed, or simply retrieved from the scene and taken to a more appropriate place, away from the chaos. There are various agencies that need to access the body in order to perform their functions, such as a coroner or pathologist, who has to declare the person officially dead. Then there is the Homicide Squad and detectives, who need to do an investigation to determine what happened. None of the above can happen when there’s a suspicious package or device in play.

In July 2001, Peter James Knight entered a fertility clinic armed with a .22 rifle and two large bags. Without warning or hesitation, he shot and killed a security guard, Stephen Rogers, who had tried to stop him when he saw the rifle. As a private abortion provider, the clinic was a target for anti-abortion demonstrators who used harassment and violence to show their disdain.

More details of what happened inside were revealed during Knight’s trial, where he was sentenced to life with a minimum of 23 years. After killing Rogers, Knight turned his attention to the other 25 people inside, including staff and patients. He pointed his rifle at a pregnant woman, but before he could act, and massacre the innocents before burning down the building, he was tackled by her partner and another brave man. The trio ended up on the floor, fighting desperately for control of the weapon. The struggle resulted in the barrel of the gun getting bent. Once the situation was under control, the gun was retrieved by a staff member and taken out of the clinic while Knight was being restrained by the men. Police were called, and the clinic was evacuated, but the two large bags Knight had brought with him remained inside, so that meant we had to take control of the scene and clear it.

When I arrived, there was a large contingency of police members who were in direct danger should an explosion have occurred. It is not unusual to arrive at a bomb site and ask where the suspicious items are, only to have them pointed out mere metres away. In one outrageous case, a police officer had actually picked up the package and put it in his car – the car we were all standing beside.

I always ask three questions on my arrival:

1. Where is it?

2. What is it?

3. How big is it?

The answers to these questions help me determine where to place my cordons and formulate an evacuation plan.

After agreeing on our plan and donning bomb suits, we approached the suspicious bags and used specialised equipment to determine that, in their current state, the bags and items within them were safe to handle and remove.

We collected an array of things, including approximately 16 litres of kerosene in a number of plastic containers, and rudimentary homemade wicks or torches. There were tree branches with cloth attached to the ends, a number of lighters, other pieces of cloth which were to be used as gags, a large quantity of twine, a hammer, some large nails and four manufactured steel items. Those steel items intrigued and confused me for some time. Knight had also written a peculiar note stating that as the result of a fatal accident involving members of staff, all appointments had been cancelled.

With the scene cleared and handed over to the Homicide Squad, questions remained about the items Knight had brought to the scene and what he’d intended to do with them. Given that he was alive and in custody, we needed to gather as much evidence as possible for the trial, so prosecutors could ensure this man would be locked up for life and taken off the streets.

I returned to the clinic a few days later to figure out what function the items Knight had brought would have achieved, should he not have been tackled and stopped. Knight was refusing to cooperate with police or even confirm his identity. All police were able to discover was that he was from New South Wales, was a hermit who lived off the grid with no electricity or phone, had attended many anti-abortion rallies and was a proactive protester. Knight had worked for a vehicle manufacturer and was an engineer. He was extremely intelligent, and had plucked the location of the fertility clinic from a phone book and travelled down to Victoria to make a big statement about abortion.

I worked with, and tested, all the items and finally figured them out. The four steel items were supposed to jam the door shut and prevent anyone from getting in and, most terrifyingly, anyone getting out – including Knight. They were a tubular shape with one side removed and a plate welded to the bottom section with a hole for a nail to be hammered through into the wooden floor of the clinic. All the ground floor windows in the clinic had thick iron bars to prevent anyone from gaining access, so the only point of entry was through the front door. Knight intended to open the door and slide a tubular pipe along the bottom. Then, by closing it, the only exposed piece of the steel contraption would have been the welded metal plate with the nail hole exposed. He would have then hammered one of the large nails into the plate, rendering it impossible to open from either the inside or the outside.

We determined that his intention was to herd all the staff and patients into a smaller room and secure them. Then, using the kerosene, he’d planned to start an inferno.

Knight represented himself in court and was sentenced to life in prison with a non-parole period of 23 years, which will make him around 70 years of age before he’s eligible for release. I pray he never sees the light of day.

19

OPEN WATER

Having successfully climbed Aconcagua in South America, Mount Everest in Nepal, Elbrus in Russia, Kilimanjaro in Africa, Mount Kosciusko in Australia and Denali in North America, I started to get that all too familiar itch for a challenge. What was next? How could I up the ante? What could satisfy my thirst for an adrenaline rush and bring me the satisfaction of completing something I never thought I’d do? I sought out Greg, who was now working interstate, knowing he would understand my state of mind and would likely be having the same thoughts. Together, we bounced around some ideas and I brought up a conversation I’d had with someone who had paddled from Tasmania to Victoria in a sea kayak. It’s safe to say, it piqued our interest.

Not one to waste time, I set out to find a suitable craft that could get the job done – one that would be capable of crossing Bass Strait, the body of water separating mainland Australia from Tasmania. Bass Strait is notorious for several reasons, including its rough waters, which are often turbulent and unpredictable, the rapidly changing weather conditions, and its shallow depth, at an average of just 50 metres, which causes large waves to become even more formidable. It’s a notorious body of water that presents a challenge for ships and boats, let alone little old me in a kayak. We estimated the distance of the paddle to be approximately 320 kilometres.

With a plan in place, I purchased a six-metre-long Whisky 18 composite kayak. Then I discovered I also needed a bilge pump, paddle, spare paddle, life vest, a protective skirt to attached around the cockpit of the kayak, and a location beacon, as required by law, among other essential items.

I joined the Victorian Sea Kayaking Club so I could learn from the experts who kayaked on a daily basis. I didn’t tell them about my plans initially, as some people believed you needed ten years’ experience before attempting such a dangerous crossing. I had four months – I had to learn quickly. I trained with them on weekends and did my own personal training on Port Phillip Bay. I also kayaked in a swimming pool to learn how to right it if I capsized.

Meanwhile, Greg had invited some other people along on the journey – the more the merrier, I suppose. Three of the paddlers lived in Victoria, and one quite close to me. It was good to have a training partner, and someone to bounce ideas off and plan with. The other two were brothers, Ian and Phil Shepherd, and we were all current or former police officers.

We were all novice kayakers, but we now had safety in numbers, which gave me greater confidence. One weekend we all trained on Port Phillip Bay. My intention was to paddle for eight hours without returning to shore, which I had already done on several occasions. Leaving Mentone in the morning, we paddled to Mornington. The plan was to turn around and paddle straight back to Mentone, but I was outvoted – the rest of the group headed to shore to stretch their legs. This wasn’t what I had planned, nor did I feel like it would help us succeed in the long run. On Bass Strait, there’d be no opportunity to stop and stretch.

Certainly, one of my major faults is that I like to be independent. In all my planning, I am pedantic. Training with a larger group meant a lot of decisions were being made by majority vote. I felt strongly about the way we needed to train, and was also drawing on the expertise of someone who had already completed the same voyage, but I was being ignored. My challenge to cross Bass Strait was being taken over by people I didn’t even know that well, and it irked me.

We were running out of time, so I travelled to Sydney to paddle across Sydney Heads with Greg, in unfavourable conditions. With a month before our departure date, I decide to complete the first leg of our trip solo, to test all my equipment. Yes, I am stubborn, and sometimes extremely impatient.

What was supposed to be a two-day paddle turned into six. I started out at 8 am on Monday from Port Welshpool and made a number of critical errors that, thankfully, could have turned out a lot worse.

The tide was at its fullest, which made leaving Port Welshpool easy and I was able to take a number of shortcuts across the mud flats. The weather forecast said the winds could reach 17 knots for the first two days, and I planned to call Jann for more updates when I reached Refuge Cove.

The first 15 kilometres was smooth paddling. I was then hit with a strong headwind and a swell of about one metre, but was able to handle both was no real issues. The breeze increased throughout the day, but I remained fairly comfortable. Refuge Cove was very sheltered, and the ideal camping area. I originally parked my kayak on the main beach and dragged it up to what I thought was a safe distance, only to have the sea swell drag it back out. I had to sprint back down the beach and swim out to retrieve it; lesson learnt. Despite climbing some distance to try and get a signal, I was unable to contact Jann. I was very much on my own.

The next day, the ocean was littered with white-caps, indicating rough seas, which obviously caused me some concern. Not one to shirk a challenge, however, I ignored the warning signs and embraced the unexpected conditions as an added test of my resolve. Leaving the protection of the cove, I soon found myself out in the open ocean among what can only be described as ‘large swell’. At one point I considered returning to the safety of Refuge Cove, but instead, ignoring my gut instincts, I let stubbornness rule and continued on.

The conditions didn’t improve – instead, they worsened. The initial forecast I’d been going off had literally been blown off the map! The swell increased to 3 metres, with many of the waves breaking into surf. One smashed me so hard that I was pushed about 50 metres off course. Just as I recovered from the first hit, I was pummelled by another wave. I got caught in the barrel of the wave and I reckon I rolled at least three times. I’d been told to always hold on to the oar, but I made a rookie mistake and let go, although it was still attached to the kayak. As I came up for air, I was hit by another wave. The weather had changed in a matter of minutes and this showed how unpredictable Bass Strait can be.

I was forced to detach from the cockpit, remaining attached to the kayak by a leg rope. As I floated in the water, waves continually broke over me, dragging both me and the kayak through the water. I was fighting for my survival; I thought I was going to drown. I now know just how lucky I was to pull through.

I tried to climb back into the kayak, but the cockpit was full of water. I tried to use the bilge pump to empty it out, but each time a wave hit, it filled up again.

I was 800 metres south of Rabbit Head and about 300 metres offshore. The waves had pushed me towards some rocks. At a loss, I got on the back of the kayak, lay down and paddled away from the rocks, towards the beach, where six-foot high waves were breaking on the shore. Somehow I managed to steer myself to the shallows, missing the rocks by about 50 metres, and surfed the kayak in so it wouldn’t nosedive into the sand.

Safely on the shore, I realised I had lost my spare paddles, hat, sunglasses and reading glasses. Basically, anything that wasn’t attached to my deck by a lanyard was gone. I tried to drag the kayak to higher ground as the waves continued to roll in. After a time, some of my belongings began washing up on the beach. I was able to recover two water bladders, my hand pump, water bottles and paddle float. I also found my extra pair of reading glasses, which I had thankfully put in my life vest.

I knew there was no way that I could leave the beach that day. I managed to find a high point where I could pitch my tent and tied the kayak to a tree with the leg rope. My two-day adventure spilled over to three days and soon became four, and then five. Over the next two days the wind and waves persisted, preventing me from leaving the beach. I managed to contact Jann to let her know I was okay, but would be home later than expected.

After three days, I woke to an extremely high tide. The waterline was so high, I was concerned for my kayak and tent. Just as I pondered moving everything to a safer spot, a large wave crashed through my tent, leaving my belongings in a muddy pool of sand. I started to wonder if I’d ever get off this beach.

At 1 pm I dragged the kayak 800 metres to the other end of the beach, packed all my equipment and attempted to leave. I got smashed again and ended up back on the beach; clearly mother nature didn’t want me going anywhere. I spent the next two hours repairing my steering, which had been damaged – this was a challenge too, as I hadn’t brought the appropriate tools.

By now it had been six days since I left Port Welshpool. I was fast running out of food and water, and knew I had to get off that beach. Judging the conditions, I figured I had a three-minute window of smaller swell to get out. I returned to my camp and packed up, dragged the kayak back down the beach 800 metres, loaded everything up and got ready to go.

For the next half an hour, I timed the wave sets and breaks before I finally decided to go for it. My first attempt was again unsuccessful, but I knew I couldn’t give up. I emptied out the kayak and gathered my belongings, secured everything and gave it another try. This time, I successfully made it through the breaking waves, only to discover I had no control of my rudder. By my estimate, I had about three-and-a-half hours of paddling against the tide to get back to Port Welshpool.

Over the back of the breaking waves, the water was extremely smooth, but then swell started rolling in from behind me. I was physically fatigued from paddling against the current, and mentally fatigued from constantly turning around to assess the waves creeping up on me from behind.

After six hours, I finally made it to the jetty at Port Welshpool, only to find the tide at its lowest. The mud flats stretched 300 hundred metres before the beach and then the car park! I had returned with just 5 litres of water.

I learnt so much on that trip: that it’s vital to have accurate weather updates, how to best secure items inside the kayak, to purchase floating oars (not ones that immediately sink), to set a knot limit and stick to it, and … that it’s great to walk along the beach in your undies.

Having shared my lessons with the team, we made all the necessary adjustments and considerations. The day before we departed, Jann and I decided to spend the night in Port Albert so I would be fresh for the next day. At 1 pm, Greg called to say there’d been an issue while he and Phil were travelling down from Sydney. They’d had their kayaks on the roof rack, but they hadn’t tied down the noses properly and they’d come loose and ended up on the Hume Highway. They were doing urgent repairs, but I was worried about the integrity of their crafts. If one collapsed in the middle of Bass Strait, it could be fatal.

The next day, Jann and I arrived in Port Welshpool and the wind was not favourable. The tide was also out, and the vast mudflats exposed. I told the team we needed to delay our trip, but they were determined to get going. Ignoring them, I booked some camping spots and planned for a midnight departure, when the tide would be at its highest and the wind would have died down.

At the camping ground, we exchanged ideas. One person had written up an ‘Operation Order’ that included thirteen golden rules they wanted everyone to abide by. We had a lot of strong personalities, but I considered myself to be on top of the leaderboard – that’s just who I am.

For the next hour, we discussed our departure time and whether to stop at a closer location than Refuge Cove, such as Rabbit Island or Snake Beach. I was strongly opposed to that idea – having experienced these conditions, I knew once we left Port Welshpool we would feel the full force of Bass Strait. I took Greg aside and told him I was reconsidering doing the trip with them. I decided if the shit I was hearing from them continued, they would wake up to find me gone.

Next, one of the team declared he had forgotten his sail. He suggested we should wait another day until a friend could bring it to him. I was losing control of the mission, which made me nervous – I’d already escaped death once out there. The old saying ‘you’re only as strong as your weakest link’ was starting to really ring true. We were risking our lives, and needed everything to go right.

I am not blaming Greg, Paul, Ian or Phil, who I do respect, but this was how I was feeling. Everything I suggested to the group was being brushed aside. I told Jann that if they left earlier than midnight, I would be staying back.

Greg must have had words with the others, because they agreed that we would all leave together. We adjusted the departure time to 4 am, although it was clear some were unhappy with the decision.

We paddled out before the sun came up, and it soon popped its head above the horizon, creating the perfect conditions. We made it to Refuge Cove at midday.

Our next leg took us to Hogan Island. Some of the team decided to follow a compass bearing that would not take us directly to the island, but would rely on the tides to push us in that direction. I preferred a direct bearing to the island. The argument was decided with another majority vote, which once again went against me. Greg could see my frustrations building; I was in a seriously bad headspace. I was thinking, Who are you guys to tell me what I should do? Despite this, at no time did we exchange angry words.

On our 50-kilometre paddle from Refuge Cove to Hogan Island, where we were hit with four seasons in one day. We had to join our kayaks side by side to establish a more stable platform. When a large container ship appeared bearing down on our location, I grabbed my radio and attempted a call: ‘Whisky 18, to the container ship between Wilsons Promontory and Hogan Island, we are five kayakers at sea about 10 kilometres north of Hogan Island.’ I was somewhat surprised to receive an immediate response: ‘Roger that, Whiskey 18. We will now be redirecting 20 degrees to port.’ With that, the ship turned, averting a collision. ‘Safe travels,’ the skipper said.

Prior to landing at Hogan Island, we were all struggling against a strong current and Ian was having a particularly hard time of it. I suggested to Phil that we should approach from a different direction, only to be shut down. Phil thought I was saying his brother couldn’t handle the conditions. For my part, it was genuine concern. It had been a long day, and Ian was battling hard in that moment. I thought to myself, if we had left two hours earlier we would have avoided these currents.

We spent three nights on the island, as the weather turned and the winds were more than 15 knots. We had previously agreed that if the winds reached more than 15 knots, we would not paddle. My days on the island were generally spent walking up the 116-metre peak to get a decent phone signal. Jann, my daughter Caroline and her partner, Scott, were going to meet me in Tasmania at Little Musselroe Bay, and it was important to keep them informed about our progress. At that point, I would be three to four days late.

Next, we would be heading to the Kent Group, which comprises three islands: Dove, Edith and Deal Island. To get there, you have to cross the Murray Pass, which is best done during a full tide, as this allows you passage between Dove and Edith Island. If you arrive too early or too late, there’s a natural rock barrier that prevents you from passing.

We decided to leave at 3 am, but at 2 am, the weather was still unfavourable. We agreed on a 5 am start, which blew out to 6 am. In low light. I led the group out through the small harbour and was paddling strongly, enjoying my time on the calmer water. Within three hours I was 1 kilometre away from the group, lapping up some time to myself. Over the radio the guys informed me that they had readjusted their bearings and were now veering away to my right.

The group suggested that I should change my bearing to join them, which was a fair request – in a kayak, it’s easy to lose sight of everyone. We met up again and continued to Deal Island. Time was now becoming a factor, as we needed to hit that small window of opportunity to have a safe passage between Edith and Dove islands. Although we were now an hour behind the high tide, I was confident we would arrive within the tide limit – and I was right. We paddled between the two islands and I admired their beautiful rock formations. At one point though, we only had 150 millimetres of clearance. If we had been any later, that structure would have sat 1.5 metres high and created an impassable barrier.

The next leg was the one I was apprehensive about, as we would need to paddle approximately 70 kilometres. My research had indicated we had to leave on a certain tide and be away from the island before the tide changed – otherwise, we’d run the risk of been dragged back to our departure point by the strong currents. Just as I’d experienced on many mountain climbs, I had a bad day, health-wise. We’d planned to depart at 3 am, but I had been ill overnight. I got up at 1 am so I didn’t have to rush and could have a decent breakfast, knowing I’d be paddling for more than ten hours.

Unbeknown to me at the time, the others were concerned about the weather, but the lighthouse keepers said it would be fine. It was pitch black as we left the safety of the harbour, and for the next eight hours we paddled into a strong headwind and battled a large swell, but to everyone’s credit, we powered through.

We had covered just 24 kilometres in eight hours, with 46 to go. The sun was rising and Deal Island still seemed so close, which felt disheartening. I was exhausted from being ill, but when we debated whether to return to Deal Island or continue to Killiecrankie or Roydon Island, I was keen for Roydon. Predictably, the others were keen for Killiecrankie, but we agreed to decide later and continued on our way.

Two hours later, I was falling behind and was now looking forward to a break every hour. I had filled all my water bladders on Deal Island, which in hindsight wasn’t wise, as it meant I was carrying extra weight.

As we neared Flinders Island, we identified the wrong headland and had to readjust our course to Roydon Island. It was getting dark, but I had a good visual on the others, who were now close to land and about 1.5 kilometres away. The last two hours were horrendous as we fought against the outgoing tide. A trip that should have taken us ten hours took a whopping seventeen and a half. Finally, I rolled out of my kayak and onto the beach. I said to Greg, ‘That was the worst day I’ve endured for ages! Why do I do these stupid challenges with you?’ He replied, ‘Because it was your idea!’ I had no comeback.

Monday involved a 33-kilometre trip to Whitemark, but we were all suffering from some kind of injury or ailment, and while we did our best to manage our respective issues, it was suggested that we should take a rest day. I reluctantly agreed, although the weather was looking favourable so I was in two minds.

We set off on Wednesday and stopped at Cape Barren Island. The four boys headed off to the local shops to get some lunch, but I wasn’t comfortable leaving our kayaks and equipment unattended. As I sat in the shade of the jetty, a vehicle appeared. The passengers made their way down to our kayaks, and I immediately got up and walked towards them. When they noticed me approaching, they started acting confused and returned to their vehicle. I have no doubt they would have ransacked our stuff and left us with next to nothing if I hadn’t been there.

We next planned to land at Preservation Island, which would put us just one day away from Tasmania and Little Musselroe Bay. Again, we were hit by bad weather and unable to leave. I could actually see Tasmania on the distant horizon; so close, yet so far. I called Jann and told her I expected to arrive between 3 and 3.30 pm the next day.

The pressure was now starting to build. I had booked the ferry back to Melbourne for Saturday night, and Ian and Paul had to be back at work on Monday.

To complete the trip, we had to cross Armstrong Channel and Banks Strait, which are known for their strong tidal streams. It was important to be there when the tide was changing to make it easier when paddling against the current. We agreed to remain together, as the winds were estimated to be around 15 knots, and Banks Strait has a reputation.

We crossed Banks Strait without too many issues and proceeded past Swan Island. If we wanted to land at Little Musselroe Bay, we had to keep Swan Island on our right side. By then I was in a passionate discussion with Phil and Ian, who believed we needed to keep the island on our left side. They also decided to land on the island to get a better phone signal so they could organise their flights.

In my view, landing on the northern side would cause difficulties due to the onshore breeze. After a respectful argument, we agreed to disagree. Knowing it would be safer to land on the southern side, where we’d be protected from prevailing winds, I paddled off in that direction. I informed the group of my intentions over the radio, and I could tell that Greg and Paul weren’t happy with me. In my defence, we hadn’t planned to stop on this island in the first place – we were only stopping so Phil and Ian could call Qantas! At times it felt like no matter what I did, I was pissing someone off!

Thirty minutes later, we all entered the mouth of a small harbourside holiday village. We were greeted by Jann, Caroline and Scott, having been away for eleven days and paddling for seven.

While my thoughts about the trip will no doubt differ from the others’, the fact that five of us left together, finished together and no one was hurt was a significant achievement. Although we were novices, we survived and didn’t kill each other. Yes, there were some personality clashes, but there were no unforgivable arguments, just strong differences of opinion – which are to be expected among like-minded alpha males!

EPILOGUE

The painkillers had worn off and my right knee was screaming for relief after my knee replacement. I summoned a nurse, only to be told I wasn’t due for another dose for a few hours. I started to dry retch with every movement. I would have done anything to go back into the drug-induced coma I had been in.

I had experienced severe pain many times before and dealt with it in my own way, but this was different, because it was completely out of my control. Although I am as stubborn as they come, I knew my body couldn’t continue to sustain the rigours of police work, the physical conditioning and regular training that it required. Like a veteran boxer who’d suffered too many knocks to the head, I was having a bad run with concussions and injury. On numerous occasions I had been knocked unconscious but soldiered on, ignoring advice to rest.

You’ve no doubt heard the term ‘act of God’. Well, in March 2015, I reckon I experienced one. It was either that or just bad luck. I was the training sergeant for the BRU and had organised an early training session at the Police Academy in Glen Waverley. Once training was completed, I directed all members to return to our office in the CBD. It was 11.45 am and I was in the front passenger seat, with another member seated directly behind me. The person behind me was reading a training manual and oblivious to the world around him. Meanwhile, I was having a conversation with the driver, chatting about the morning’s session.

We had stopped at the intersection of Whiteman and Clarendon streets in Southbank and were waiting for the arrow to change to green. Unbeknown to us, a chain of events had occurred mere minutes ago that were about to impact us significantly.

A well-known criminal by the name of Ronald Tracey had just committed an aggravated burglary in Ferrars Street, South Melbourne, and proceeded to York Street, where he’d stolen a V8 Holden ute.

Tracey was travelling at 80–100 kilometres per hours when he collided with a roundabout. He then crashed into a parked empty police vehicle and stalled the ute. A civilian unsuccessfully attempted to remove the keys from the ignition, but he restarted the V8 and turned left into Clarendon Street.

As our arrow turned green, we followed two vehicles into Clarendon Street. From then, all I can remember is a massive crash and a sideways force unlike anything I had ever felt before. I was knocked unconscious, and when I came to, our vehicle was 50 metres from the intersection. ‘What the fuck just happened?’ said the driver.

I looked down and saw that I was covered in a fine white powder, which I quickly realised was from the exploded airbags. I called out to the passenger in the back, but received no reply. I tried to open the door, but it was inoperable. Our driver managed to get out his side and checked on our passenger back. He wasn’t breathing, and his head had slammed through the window on impact. The driver tilted his head back to clear his airway and he thankfully regained consciousness a few minutes later.

A number of police officers were on the scene in seconds, with one superintendent immediately commencing traffic duties to assist. When the first paramedics arrived, they assessed the driver and our rear passenger – for some reason, I didn’t tell them I’d been knocked out.

Tracey was being tended to, but was spitting at the paramedics and causing trouble. When I learnt what had happened, I marched towards him, keen to put him in his place, but was told to stay away.

Our VW Transporter had buckled in the middle, almost folding in on itself. Our driver was being loaded into an ambulance. He had told the paramedics that I’d been ‘knocked out cold’, which I again stubbornly denied. Yes, I was either a fool, stupid or irresponsible – probably all of the above – but that was the way I’d been trained: don’t show any weakness, just get on with the job!

Still somewhat battered and bruised from the crash, only a few weeks later I literally got back on the bike and started cycling 60-plus kilometres to work and back. In June 2015, I was struck by a car while cycling. I woke up with my face pressed against the bitumen and fought to regain consciousness, then proceeded to argue with the paramedics as they attempted to load me into the ambulance. I won that battle again, and after they checked me over, I was driven home in a police divisional van with what remained of my bike shoved in the back.

When Jann got home, she found me in the master ensuite cleaning blood off my face. I returned to work the next day, and endured bad headaches for a week. The universe was trying to tell me to slow down, and I knew something had to give, but I wasn’t going quietly. The police force itself was changing, and I don’t know how many times I was told in the later years, ‘You are just a number!’ In my mind, I was Operator 30, and I was damn proud of that.

On my return from my left knee replacement in 2018, I was informed a new fitness test had been implemented for any returning injured officer. Other changes had been made to the unit in my absence, and all of a sudden the place that had been my second home (let’s be honest, sometimes first home) for the past three decades felt foreign. Things had changed within the organisation, and I couldn’t help but feel some members were just ticking the boxes and displayed no care, love or passion for the job. Day after day, I felt my love for the police force dwindle away, and I gradually became bitter about the job I’d once loved. Despite this, and because of my stubbornness, I stuck it out for another three years before my right knee replacement forced me into retirement.

Having worked my way up from being a young printing apprentice to being a member of the Victoria Police Special Operations Group and its longest-serving bomb-technician, my professional career had come to an end. I had travelled the world on the job, and seen a side of life that both shocked and disappointed me.

I was exhausted. I had given my all to Victoria Police, and would leave with almost 400 sick days owing. It was now time to retire, and make up for lost time with Jann and the family.

To the police medical officer who, way back in 1987, said I wouldn’t make it as a police officer, hey, I lasted for 34 years. I proved you wrong … or did I?

The beginning of over 40 years of marriage. Jann and I tied the knot on 21 March 1981, surrounded here by our parents.

I’d always wanted to join the police force, and becoming part of the Special Operations Group – the ‘best of the best’ – was a must for me. Here is one of the worst days on the SOG intake course, ‘Gas Day’ in 1989. I was exposed to all types of gases.

Ready to become a member of the SOG. Dressed in my ‘blacks’ the day before my oﬃcial graduation with Belinda and Caroline.

Ready for action at a siege where shots were fired. After nine hours of negotiating, the offender surrendered, October 1991.

On 29 July 1992, Stephen Asling, Stephen Barci and Norman Lee attempted to rob an Armaguard truck in Tullamarine carrying more than $1,000,000 in cash. Here, I’m on the right, closing in on Asling.

Completing my arrest of Asling. Angry face, clenched fist – how was I to know they were taking photos?

Two bags laden with stolen cash from the Asling, Barci and Lee Armaguard robbery, tossed into the back of this getaway vehicle. Two high-powered rifles were also found. My driving manoeuvres came in handy that day.

Who wants to be a millionaire? Recovering the loot from the Armaguard robbery with members from the Armed Robbery Squad. I’m front and centre.

At the SOG’s newly constructed training ground, now called a ‘Method of Entry (MOE) House’, in 1992. Paul Carr, far left and I’m front right.

Fast-roping training where SOG members are required to be proficient, and helicopter pilots need to be highly skilled.

My son Damian discovers his love of climbing at Bushrangers Bluff, Mount Arapiles. Damian accompanied me to Everest Base Camp, Kilimanjaro and summitted Denali alongside me.

You may find this strange but a year after the infamous shootout with prison escapees Butterley and Gibb, I took my family camping to the exact location in Jamieson in 1994.

Repelling off a 120-metre building in Abbotsford. No helmets required in those days!

Cannot believe I’m getting paid to do this job. After being extracted out of a marijuana crop by helicopter and dangling on a rope 50 metres long and 500 metres above the ground, you couldn’t wipe the smile from my face.

Ready to go. Awaiting deployment in the Police Airwing, April 1995.

A twelve-hour siege at a solicitor’s oﬃce in Ringwood on 12 June 1996 ended peacefully, thanks to a good dose of capsicum spray.

Training the Tasmanian SOG in tactical roping in 1997.

I was often called ‘Grumpy’ by those who know me – the look on my face says it all as we wait for approval to conduct an arrest.

Taking cover at the bottom of the stairs. There’s danger around every corner and even when we’re in training, things can get pretty hot. This explosive entry was captured at our old MOE House in Deer Park in 2006.

Over the years, I’ve climbed six of the world’s seven summits! (The highest mountain on each continent!) You’d think I’d get enough adrenaline from my day job, but I just can’t stop. Here, on 31 May 2005, I’m ascending the famous Hillary Step on Mount Everest.

Traversing the notorious ice falls in 2005. I had to take this route sixteen times as I prepared to summit Mount Everest.

Greg Linsdell (right) and I placing the plaque for Paul Carr on a rock at the climber’s memorial near Mount Everest, in 2005.

On 30 May 2005, Greg took this photo of me on the Geneva Spur with Everest looming large in the background. We summited the next day.

On the summit of Mount Elbrus, Russia, with Greg on 9 July 2006.

Family Christmas in 2010 with Jann, Caroline, Belinda and Damian. I made it to this one!

Celebrating my dad’s 82nd birthday in February 2011 – he is now 96.

The aftermath of the biggest explosion of my career. This is an aerial view of Glenn Sanders’ property on 11 April 2014, having been completely destroyed by several simultaneous explosions. Sanders was killed and three SOG members were injured in the blasts. Going through the wreckage was my grisly task.

A suspicious package found in the city in 2015. Nothing like wearing a 35 kilogram bomb-suit on a 30 degree day.

Taking on a new adventure in 2015 as I kayak across Bass Strait, from Victoria to Tasmania.

My 60th birthday ‘bomb cake’ that Jann made for me. Don’t cut the red wire!

The next generation. I’ve watched many SOG intake courses over the years. Here, the hopefuls hold heavy kit bags over their heads for as long as pleases those running the course; a mental and physical challenge.

The punishment continues on the SOG intake course, as hopefuls drag car tyres through heavy sand with thick ropes. We couldn’t have picked a nicer day for it either.

Catching up with NRL supercoach Craig Bellamy in January 2025. It was a privilege to conduct team building exercises for Melbourne Storm over a 20 year period, working in partnership with Craig and my SOG colleague Craig Walsh.

Motorbikes – another of my passions. I was one of the original members of the Frontline Motorcycle Club. I often reflect upon my life on my long drives. I gave my all to Victoria Police and the SOG, over 34 years, as its longest-serving bomb technician. It was one hell of a ride.

‘Grumpy’ (me) and ‘Mully’ (Jann) and our six grandsons, Zyah, Arlo, Sol, Maverick, Tex and Octavius. One of the great joys of retiring from the SOG is spending more time with the family.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS (& APOLOGIES)

While my career in the Victoria Police may be finished, that doesn’t mean the good times, challenges and goals have come to an abrupt end. I tried to live my life like every day could be my last.

I’m sorry to those who were with me when I may have pushed the boundaries beyond their limitations and put my needs ahead of others … or perhaps I’m sorry, not sorry!

To my eldest daughter, Caroline. I was determined to get you to the Gili Islands in Indonesia after you graduated from the Police Academy. Previously Jann and I had attended Gili Trawangan, an island in Indonesia, on a number of occasions, and love the location due to its lack of tourists. Unfortunately, when we arrived in Bali they were experiencing extremely bad weather and all boats to the Gili Islands had been cancelled. I have always tried to find a solution to every problem, so I made contact with the people who ran our accommodation on Trawangan. They said they could organise a boat to pick us up from Lombok and deliver us to Gili. I purchased the last three seats on the plane that would have delivered us to Lombok International Airport, and from there I organised a vehicle to take us to the wharf so we could be transported to the island.

When we arrived at the wharf after a three-hour drive from the airport through a number of tropical downpours, we were greeted by two crew members, who we followed to a 15-metre cruiser. Seeing the cruiser, I was suitably impressed with what I had managed to organise – but the truth was, our boat was hidden on the other side of the cruiser, and was actually a 4-metre fibreglass open boat with a 50-horsepower motor. As we reluctantly made our way onto the boat. I can still remember the expression on your face, which clearly said, ‘We are going to die!’

While they were a very professional crew, doubts lingered. One crew member stood at the front of the boat with his torch, shining it in all directions so his colleague could see where he was steering the boat, all the while trying not to fall overboard whenever we hit a wave. For a moment we could see the lights of the island on the horizon, but that soon changed as another heavy downpour started and the waves increased substantially. The boat’s ‘captain’ was now driving us in circles, attempting to locate some distant lights. At that time, you were sealing your phone in plastic and had placed it in your bag as you said, ‘Dad, we are going to die!’

Just as I was starting to consider pulling the pin on the expedition, a miracle occurred. The rain suddenly stopped and the lights in the distance reappeared on the island. Within fifteen minutes, we were there. We waded through knee-deep water to our accommodation, and soon we were having drinks and laughing about our ordeal.

The next day we did a scuba diving class and an hour later we were diving down to 15 metres. I told you it would be fine, although my ears still ring from the water pressure at that depth.

Caroline, I now know you used to fret considerably when I left the house all those times, having been called out to various jobs – your mum has since told me all about that. Being absent for days on end wasn’t what I had planned for our family, but it was a necessity of the job I chose. I’m sorry I wasn’t there as much as you would have liked me to be, but I’m putting in the time now, and hope you know how much I love you.

To Belinda and Damian, remember when we went to Kilimanjaro for the adventure of a lifetime? We arrived in Kenya and were separated on the first night due to a stuff-up with our accommodation. Your mum and I were surprised you were still there the next morning! Through bad weather, sickness and altitude, we continued on, one foot in front of the other. We endured many bouts of nausea and other issues too gross to describe. I’m sorry I made you both my crash-test dummies when I set up various zip-lines and traverses, but I was right when I told you the bruises would eventually disappear. I am super proud of you both, and lucky to have three magnificent and thoughtful children. I know having me as a father hasn’t been easy and I’m sorry for missing some of your birthdays, including a sixteenth, eighteenth and 21st in the same year. I will always treasure the holidays we had when you were all growing up, and relish the fact that Jann and I are getting the opportunity to spend time with you and our grandchildren Octavius, Maverick, Tex, Zyah, Arlo and Sol. As parents, our job is now done, but we will always be there to support you, no matter where your journeys lead.

To my parents, who gave me the necessary lessons and instructions to become who I am today – namely, to work hard and the rewards will come – and for teaching me the values of life and respect – thank you. I’m sorry for not taking school more seriously, and for getting into fights.

To my three sisters, Moira, Margaret and Carmel – three amazing women who kicked the footy with me when growing up, kept me under control, took the blame when my father found the cigarettes hidden in the backyard and for many other indiscretions. Moira and Margaret – you helped me when I had difficulties in learning, although Margaret did push my head into the wall once when I had trouble understanding mathematics. I’m sure it was done with affection, but most likely frustration too, as I know I was a difficult student.

To my best friend, Shane. When I took you up to Mount Arapiles with Paul Carr and other members of the SOG and we set up the ‘Swing’. To watch you step off the ledge, showing that you fully trusted me – you fool! Well, you swung out far, with the valley floor a hundred metres below, and had an amazing experience. I was right when I said the ropes would hold you and you wouldn’t die. We first met in Grade 3 and remain friends to this day. We have shared many journeys, including holidays as school children in Warneet and adventures in the Victoria Police Force as fellow officers, and have relished the opportunity to talk about the things we have both seen and witnessed. It’s been therapy for me having a few beers with you or sitting on your mum’s kitchen floor drinking her homemade crème de menthe. From the motorbike trips with the Frontline Motorcycle Club, trips to Bali and other things we can’t mention due to the statute of limitations, I will always be there for you, Jen and the family.

During my first ten years of employment at Luna Nameplates with Geoff Penaluna – not only was I treated as a young apprentice, but I was also treated as a member of the family. Geoff passed away in 2021, but I remain forever close to his wife, Wendy, and daughters, Tracey, Kerry and Sally-Anne, who have followed and supported my journey for 46 years.

To Greg Linsdell, you started as my climbing instructor with Paul Carr when I was just a student on the SOG training course and now, 35 years later, we have so many stories to tell and so many adventures to reminisce about. A recipient of the Victoria Police Valour Award (awarded to sworn police for a particular incident involving an act that displayed exceptional bravery in extremely perilous circumstances), you are the brother I never had, and you have always had my back and are ready to support me whenever I’m in need. We climbed six of the seven summits together, paddled across Bass Strait, cycled thousands of kilometres, attended hundreds of critical incidents and we are still going strong. Your recent retirement does worry me, though, as I know you’ll try to fill the void with more adventures with Tracey, me and Jann.

To Barry and Colleen, our close friends who we travelled around South America with in 2017. Colleen: having never ridden a bicycle before, I somehow convinced you to complete the infamous Yungas Road or ‘The Death Road’, which was a great effort – and you only fell off once! Barry: you joined Jann and me on an unofficial tour of Cerro Rico in the township of Potosí. Cerro Rico is located in the southern highlands of Bolivia, and the cone-shaped mountain stands as a 15,800 foot monument to the tragedies of the Spanish conquest. It is estimated that during colonial times, eight million slaves died in the mines of Cerro Rico. Around fourteen miners still die there every month, with some 15,000 miners entering the mine every day. This mountain that ‘eats men’ has been mined for more than 400 years. To have been in the mine when they fired twenty explosive charges and being covered in dust as a result is something I think we will always remember.

To all the members of Victoria Police that I had the opportunity and pleasure to work with, including those detectives who were required to attend the three-day Grampians climbing and rappelling introduction program, designed by Paul, Greg and myself – a course designed to assist detectives in communicating with each other. To all the people I meet on Paul Carr’s private roping trips to the Grampians – too many to mention, but you know who you are.

To Paul Carr’s family, Paul was a big part of my life and he will never be forgotten: ‘Deeds, not words.’

A special mention to our support crew to Everest Base Camp and an apology for introducing you to the effects of high altitude, as we went through many cans of ‘harden the fuck up’. To Jennifer Adams, thanks for the documentary you produced, Unfinished Business. To Brendon Warburton, KB – one of the nicest but toughest members of the SOG there ever was, you fought to the end and are truly missed. Damian Taylor, my sister Carmel, John Tetteroo, Taline and Paul Linsdell, Cherie Horne and especially Tracey Green, and of course my wife, Jann.

A big thank you to all the members at the Special Operations Group and Bomb Response Unit, past and present. Again, there are too many individuals to mention, but I know that when the shit was hitting the fan, you all had my back and I hope you felt the same about me. It was always forward and never a backwards step.

To my IDQ (I Don’t Quit) mates: Truckie, Walshy and the third member I can’t mention – twenty years of boot camps with NRL team Melbourne Storm and numerous AFL teams, the Australian netball team, various basketball teams, local teams and many corporations – who would have thought a hobby would go so far and our program be so successful? We didn’t make much money, but that wasn’t why we did it – it was all about mateship and doing something together that we loved.

To the incredible team at Pan Macmillan – publisher Alex Lloyd, editor Grace Carter, copyeditor Vanessa Lanaway, proofreader Elena Gomez, designer Adam Laszczuk, publicist Jane Watkins and marketer Tom Evans – thank you for your interest and help in bringing my story to life, and for approaching this book with so much enthusiasm, passion and care.

They say, ‘leave the best for last’. There is no way I can express how much love and affection I have for my family. The amount of time I spent away, either working or selfishly completing all those private challenges. Forty-three years married to my beautiful wife, Jann. Jann, your support for me as a member of Victoria Police, the Special Operations Group, Bomb Response Unit and everything I’ve wanted to accomplish privately has been nothing short of remarkable, and I will be forever grateful for the sacrifices you’ve made. Working for yourself as a podiatrist, running our household – much of the time as a virtual single parent – never have you complained, even when I’d often come home exhausted and grumpy. I can’t adequately articulate the amount of love I have for you and the regret for what I have put you through. All I can say is, thank you for everything and I love you. Hopefully in retirement I can give you the life you deserve. I hope you can tolerate me as a stay-at-home husband if I promise to be more patient and less grumpy! I look forward to more trips with you.

I would like to think that I have always been there for my family and friends when they needed that phone call or visit.

To everyone else, remember: live life to the fullest!

About the authors

John Taylor is the longest-serving bomb squad expert in the Special Operations Group. After decades of frontline work in Victoria Police’s tactical group, John is now retired and lives in Melbourne with his wife, Jann.

Heath O’Loughlin is the son of a former head of the SOG, Doug. Heath worked as a television journalist for eight years across the Seven and Nine networks, including as a specialist police reporter. After leaving journalism, he worked at the North Melbourne Football Club for 13 years as its GM of Media & Communications, then moved to the National Basketball League in 2021 as Chief Media & Content Officer. Through Fear and Fire is his fourth book. He lives in Melbourne with his partner, Emma, and her son, Jack.

Pan Macmillan acknowledges the Traditional Custodians of Country throughout Australia and their connections to lands, waters and communities. We pay our respect to Elders past and present and extend that respect to all Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples today. We honour more than sixty thousand years of storytelling, art and culture.

Some of the people in this book have had their names changed to protect their identities.

First published 2025 in Macmillan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited 1 Market Street, Sydney, New South Wales, Australia, 2000

Copyright © Heath O’Loughlin 2025

The moral right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.

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EPUB format: 9781761771675

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Cover images: Z2A1 / Alamy Stock Photo

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